


Time/Release

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-05-23 18:52:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6126688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony gets wind of Project Insight at the same time his mechanical expertise is requested.  The shit hits the turbines, and then some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Well, there's Deaged!Tony and awkward crushes, but at worst there's the Winter Soldier doing what the Winter Soldier does, occasionally in front of a not-very-impressionable kid. Unless Deaged!Tony needs a warning of his own, in which case, _yes_.
> 
> Also, the chapter breaks in the first two chapters are slightly different than they were on tumblr and have been fixed on the squeebot, in case that was confusing.

In the silence of his penthouse office, the squeak of his chair springs are loud as Tony sits back, forefinger tapping out a fast, arrhythmic beat at the edge of his glass-topped desk. He can see now why JARVIS insisted on the extra precautions; his workshop, while secure, is Grand Central Station by comparison.

He stills his restless tapping by laying his hand flat, pushing a little against the glass as he takes a deep breath. It's not that he's surprised that SHIELD has secrets. He's not surprised they're big secrets. He can even see a world in which he might approve of this one if someone packaged it up just right.

In _this_ world the packaging amounts to a gift-wrapped box of steaming shit left on his doorstep and set on fire, just waiting for him to open the door on that unpleasant surprise.

"Project Insight," he says at last, watching muted security footage play across his laptop screen. "Were the plans for this in the original download from the Battle of New York?"

" _No, sir_ ," JARVIS replies, subdued. " _It seems to be a more recent endeavor, perhaps conceived in response to that incident. Additionally, it appears that not all of SHIELD's files were obtained in that foray; I have taken the liberty of continuing to sweep for information as weaknesses have opened in the system, resulting in the intelligence I called to your attention this morning_."

"Good work, JARVIS," he says, though he doesn't feel much like celebrating. He has a voice mail from Fury sitting in his queue right now, inviting him to take a look at turbine plans for a new generation of helicarriers. He'd been planning to make a day of it--his fucking _reward_ for keeping his nose to the grindstone on the lucrative-but-boring SI patents--but he's got a pretty good idea now what his tinkering will be powering.

A small fleet of helicarriers with firepower beyond compare, guided by the pinnacle of targeting capability, designed to be fueled and serviced without ever touching the ground. No terrorist organization, no rogue mutant or disaffected scientist would be able to step one foot outside their bunkers without coming under fire. It's a good thought, it really is, _in theory_. It just raises a few tiny questions, like what the strategy will be after they've taken out all the obvious idiots and made sure only the fittest problems survived. Who's on the list besides terrorists, and who gets to choose? Who watches the watchdogs? And who thought it would be a good idea to present this to the world as a fait accompli?

Christ, he can hear the sound of Captain America losing his shit already, and the damn ships aren't even in the air yet.

His fingers drum against the glass once, twice, and stop.

"Get me Fury," he says, sitting forward and closing down the footage of scrambling crews climbing over a trio of ships, the vast hulks already two-thirds complete. Tony frowns. "No, wait. Set up a meeting instead. Tell him I'm going to need a little _insight_ into what he needs the turbines to lift if he wants them calibrated properly. If he asks, I'm not available to take any phone calls at the moment."

" _Are you certain this conversation will go more smoothly in person, sir? Your previous interactions with Director Fury suggest_ \--"

"I'm not expecting this conversation to go smoothly either way," Tony admits, falling back and tiredly pinching the bridge of his nose, elbow braced on the arm of his chair. "He's just going to find it a lot harder to hang up on me face-to-face."

It's also a lot more satisfying to walk out of a meeting than to thumb a disconnect, but he's hoping it won't come to that. It _will_ , but he can hope.

And if he doesn't get the answer he wants, he can always send the favorite kid in next.

***

"Here you are, Mr. Stark," the receptionist says with a star-struck smile, sliding a badge across the desk with one hand while turning a sign-in log his way with the other. Tony can tell she's going for Maria Hill's look--dark colors, a severe suit-skirt combo, hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun--but Hill would be staring him down preemptively, not trying a little too hard to look like she _isn't_ staring. "If you could, um...."

"SHIELD's been talking to Happy, haven't they?" he asks, flashing a grin as he clips the badge to the pocket of his suit jacket. "He even makes me sign in, and I'm pretty sure I own the building. Well. Most of the building."

"Yes, sir," the receptionist says, cheeks pinking. "Sorry. It's procedure for everyone."

"Safety first," he says with a half-shrug and bites back a crack about getting his autograph as he scrawls his signature with a flourish. Making a pretty girl blush is one thing, but it's a lot more fun when mortification isn't the main reason.

"Thanks, Mr. Stark." She sounds relieved. Maybe she'd expected him to play the celebrity asshole card. "Director Fury should be expecting you. Would you like an escort up?"

"Nah. I think I know my way to the principal's office by now," he tosses over his shoulder as he turns, heading for the big glass elevators on the far side of the lobby.

He gets a few stares, an absent nod from a wandering tech whose eyes are mostly fixed on her tablet, but no one hails him or tries to waylay him for a change. He can't imagine Fury's happy about having SHIELD's security compromised, much less by _him_. If he's been stomping around all day, Tony's probably persona non grata at the moment amongst the rank and file.

More so than usual, that is.

Plastering a fake smile on his face as he nears the doors, Tony takes a deep breath and strides into Fury's glass-walled office without slowing. "Nicky-boy! What's this I hear about you starting a police state without--"

It isn't Fury waiting for him in the big chair.

"Mr. Stark," Alexander Pierce greets him with a slick, plastic smile of his own. He doesn't rise, but he does hold out a hand to indicate the lone chair stationed in front of the desk, a hotseat if Tony's ever seen one. "So good of you to join us."

"Funny," Tony says, refusing to move from his spot until Pierce drops his hand. "When you say 'us', I tend to expect a few more people. Director Fury, for instance."

"He'll be along shortly, but I wanted the chance to talk to you first. It seems you've been busy, Mr. Stark."

"And it seems you've been watching one too many Bond movies, but I won't hold that against you. I mean, if you were going for Good Cop, Bad Cop, I have to say, Fury...actually does make a surprisingly good Good Cop," he says with a thoughtful frown, sinking at last into the chair offered. "Carry on."

Pierce's nostrils flare as a muscle in his jaw jumps, and he doesn't try too hard to hide either. That's fine with Tony; their dislike is entirely mutual. Tony's never cared for Secretary Pierce, and the incident with the warhead hadn't improved his opinion of any of the World Security Council members. Fury may be a secretive bastard, but until this current debacle, Tony would have trusted him to come down on the side of moderation and careful planning. The more Tony thinks about it, the more Project Insight just doesn't seem quite like Nick's style. It isn't just throwing out the basket because of one bad apple; it has the potential to burn down the whole orchard.

Pierce lets out his breath on a sharp sigh. "Project Insight was encrypted under the highest level of security--"

"And I can definitely see why. Seriously, let's ignore everything we've learned about public sentiment regarding drone attacks and the absolute panic that would ensue if they were carried out on US soil. You want to go after terrorists? Let's park three Death Stars over DC and see how many perfectly rational citizens become terrorists _overnight_ in reaction to a stealth launch of those things. Who even thought this was a good idea?" Tony demands, flabbergasted anew at the sheer idiocy involved.

Pierce frowns. "A stealth launch," he repeats slowly. "While we do plan to prepare for launch at a moment's notice, the Insight ships are meant to be kept in reserve for another invasion. I'm not sure where you got the idea we'd be hunting terrorists with ships meant to repel an army, but...forgive me for being blunt, but that's ludicrous. If I wanted to spark an international incident, there are easier ways--not to mention less expensive."

Tony sits back with a scowl, focusing on whether to go with the paranoid or complacent response to distract himself from the tingle of ice crawling through his gut. He'd like to believe Pierce, except that the documents at the highest level of encryption, the ones even JARVIS had struggled to obtain, have Pierce's name all over them. "Then it sounds like you need to do a little spring cleaning, because someone in your organization has other ideas," he says, mouth tightening. "I'll turn over what I've dug up, but until you catch this guy, I'm out. You're going to need another engineer."

And he's going to need another appointment with Fury, assuming Fury himself hasn't bought into this scheme. Does Nick even know? Is that why he's been absent from the meeting? And what the hell is Pierce's endgame here? He can't really think there won't be pushback unless he's planning on going the classic villain route and--

He struggles not to react, but Tony suddenly wants his suit. He wants it _really badly_.

"Understood," Pierce says, reaching for his phone. "I'll throw a team at this today. In the meantime--"

Tony has a complicated relationship with electricity. He loves it--it does beautiful, wonderful things for him--but he's pretty sure it's going to cost him his life at least as many times as it saves it.

The pulse that kicks through him starts in his chest, right over his suit pocket where the badge he'd clipped on rests. He's only dimly aware of bucking in his seat, the familiar scrambling of his thoughts already taking over as everything misfires, his brain spitting out useless fragments as every synapse lights up at once. Even after the pulse ends, there's a moment when he can't move, can't think, speech and sense deserting him. It's more than enough time for someone to step up behind him and push a hypodermic home.

"What do we do with him, sir?" asks the man at his back. Two cool fingers press at the side of his neck, taking his pulse. He can't quite work up the coordination to push that hand away, and while he tries to call his suit to him through his implants, he's not sure he even comes close to succeeding. On the plus side, even if all he managed was spilling his armor across the workshop floor, JARVIS will know something's up, and then--

"Neutralize him," Pierce says grimly, "but don't kill him. We can put that mind of his to work after the launch. Otherwise I don't care how you do it; just find a way to keep him under control and away from his tech. Whatever it takes. And Sitwell...."

"Sir?"

"Try and remember this is Tony Stark," Pierce mutters like it pains him.

"Yes, sir," Sitwell replies, his voice curiously muffled. "In here," he adds, "hurry up. What's Fury's position?"

"Just leaving Medical," a third man replies as heavy hands latch onto Tony's arms. He's moving, lifting, flying--

Slung between two burly guards, he doesn't start struggling until a black cloth falls over his face and is cinched around his neck. It's a bag, a _hood_ , and his chest is on fire, and they're going to--they can't--

"Hold him!"

\--they can't cut into him again--

"Damn it!"

But the darkness goes hazy before his panicked summons can be answered, and he tips over into unconsciousness with nothing to armor him against what's sure to come.

***

He wakes to the beeping of a heart monitor and for a moment is comforted. Voices swim in and out of hearing, but he doesn't pay them the attention he should at first. They don't make enough sense to be worth the bother.

"What about the chair?"

"It's not calibrated for him, and he won't be as resilient with mistakes. Pierce wants his mind intact."

"Well, Pierce's ego is as big as _his_ if he can't see the problem with that. Pause scan. Christ, is that another one?"

"Jesus. He's full of these things."

"No shit. Hey, do you think War Machine--"

"Iron Patriot."

"Does the _knockoff_ have implants like these?"

Implants? He remembers the implants. They connect him to his suits, make sure he can't ever...can't ever be....

"Hard to say. Probably going to get a chance to find out soon enough, though."

He really wants his suit.

"Shit!" someone yells as a monitor goes haywire. "Five of those things just lit up! Get the--"

"I got it, I got it!" There's brief pressure and a sting at his inner elbow, there and gone. "He'll be out again in ten!"

"Jesus, what is he even doing _up_? I didn't sign on to get blown up by some freak in a robot suit!"

"Well, get used to the idea, because some of those implants are inoperable," someone grumps amidst a lot of panicked fussing. Straps are checked, a mask fitted more tightly over his nose and mouth as the voices grow more distant. "We either keep him on ice until launch--"

" _Can_ we?"

"Not literally. No chamber, no chair."

"I dunno, if we could make him forget he even has the implants--"

Silence from the voices. He's so close to sleep.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Fuck, yes. Prep him."

***

Yelling. He hates waking to yelling, but at least it's not his dad this time. His dad yelling is never a good sign, though if he isn't yelling _for_ Tony, he can usually make himself scarce, wait until his dad leaves or the yelling stops.

Only problem is, he doesn't recognize the voice at all, and that's an even worse sign than his dad on a tear.

"What the hell were you thinking? I'm pretty sure your orders included the word 'intact', not--what did you even do?"

"Take it easy, Rumlow--"

"Do not even start with me, assholes! Are you seriously telling me that with a warehouse full of pharmaceuticals, _this_ was the best idea you could come up with?"

"It's time-release!" a guy in a white lab coat shouts, throwing his arms out sharply as Tony cracks an eye open. Lab Coat isn't even looking Tony's way; along with another scientist, he's facing down a big guy with close-cropped hair who's dressed like an action movie mercenary: close-fitting black fatigues, a shoulder holster, bulging muscles to go with his unshaven lantern jaw. The scientists look like two terriers squaring off against a Rottweiler, and it's all Tony can do not to give himself away with a snicker. "In reverse. Look, it'll wear off, okay?"

"It'll wear off," Rumlow parrots through clenched teeth. "And in the meantime he's--"

Tony snaps his eye shut again, but it's too late.

"--awake," Rumlow says shortly.

It's too weird to fake sleep with strangers clustering around him, so Tony sits up, hands clenching on a cheap paper covering as the world rocks briefly around him. He frowns, looking down, and finds himself lying on an operating table, not a hospital bed. He's wearing a blue hospital gown that's way too big for him that he doesn't remember putting on. He doesn't remember getting here, either. None of these things fill him with confidence, but he keeps his chin high regardless. He's a Stark, and he has to act like one.

"Hello there, Tony," one of the scientists says, bending over a little to meet him at eye level. "I'm Dr. Mannheim. You've been sick for a bit, but we're here to make sure you get better. Do you know what year it is? How old you are?"

Tony narrows his eyes. "I'm pretty sure if I was supposed to be with you guys, you'd know how old I am. And if you're looking for a payoff, forget it. My dad made me read "The Ransom of Red Chief" _five times_ and told me to do better."

Rumlow turns the kind of red that only comes from desperately-checked laughter. The faces of the scientists are a lot less friendly. Straightening brusquely, the one Tony assumes is in charge says, "Listen--"

"Take it easy, Mannheim," Rumlow drawls with an unpleasant grin. "At least we know it's the real Tony Stark. Lucky you; Pierce just may let you keep your balls."

The two scientists trade uncertain looks with each other and jump when Rumlow's big, scarred hands come down on their outside shoulders from behind.

"In fact," Rumlow suggests, "why don't the three of us go see him right now."

"Uh...sorry, but we need to secure the kid--" Mannheim tries, attempting to squirm out of Rumlow's hold.

"No problem. Asset!" Rumlow barks to someone unseen. "New orders. Guard the kid until we get back, and don't let him wander off. Understood?"

Rumlow's looking right past him, and Tony turns with a start, half expecting to see some creepy soldier standing right behind him, waiting to scare the life out of him. Instead he spots a man lurking halfway across the room, his back to the wall. He's dressed in black like Rumlow, but his uniform has far more straps and leather, and one whole arm is entirely encased in metal plates from shoulder to fingertips. His hair is long, and Tony briefly flirts with the idea of flashing him a peace sign, but the man's flat, dead look stops him before bravado can win out. It's not that he looks threatening, exactly, just like he's _really_ not having a good day.

He does look familiar, though, and that has Tony frowning.

The man nods tightly; Rumlow seems to think that's good enough.

"Wait," Mannheim protests. "He just got defrosted--"

"And he's fully operational, like he always is," Rumlow cuts in, unimpressed. "You can run your tests later. Now get moving, or I'll get _him_ to move you. Got it?"

Rumlow hustles the scientists out, yanking the door shut behind him with a loud slam. Other than the hum of machinery and the soft hiss of air through the vents, the room is quiet.

Sliding cautiously off the table, Tony glances over his shoulder with a grimace. The laces of the gown are tied as tight as they'll go, leaving almost no gaps, but it still feels like he's wearing a dress. Maybe he can use that as an excuse to poke into things, see what he has to work with when it's time to make his escape.

"Hey, do you know where they put my clothes?" he asks the man by the wall. "It's pretty cold in here, and I'm freezing in this thing."

The man stares until even Tony's ready to fidget, then shakes his head minutely.

"Then...do you mind if I look around?"

One shoulder tucks up in an awkward shrug. Tony grimaces. He should probably be grateful they left him with someone this slow, but this guy's like a zombie. Part of him wonders whether the man was born this way or whether it's something the scientists _did_ to him; they'd wanted to run tests on him, after all. And what did they mean by 'defrost'? Did they literally have him on ice? Can you do that to people? What about things trapped in glaciers? Could he defrost a mammoth and have it live? That would be _so cool_.

"Hey, what's your name?" he asks as he starts pulling open cabinet doors. The lights overhead look like the ones he's seen in operating theaters on TV, but the place has a lot more equipment than he's expecting to find. Some of it looks downright scary. "Hello?" he prods as the silence stretches.

"I am the asset," the man says quietly. He has a nice voice: raspy, like he doesn't use it often, but soft and composed.

Tony looks back at him with a frown. "That's not a name." But does this guy know what a name even _is_? "I'm Tony. Tony Stark. That's _my_ name. What's yours? What else do they call you?" he tries again when all he gets is a blank, troubled stare.

"The Winter Soldier."

Chewing on his lower lip, Tony shakes his head. "That's...I think that's a code name. It sounds like one. Maybe you just don't remember your name? But I guess you wouldn't remember not remembering." He scowls. This is confusing. "Look. I think these guys may have kidnapped me," he says, deciding to go out on a limb, because maybe this guy doesn't know _that_ either.

He's not going to even think about how much it scares him when the asset guy only nods, waiting and expectant, like the idea doesn't surprise him at all.

"Yeah, so...whatever they're paying you...."

"They're not," the guy says calmly. "The asset is the asset."

Tony slumps. The guy _is_ a zombie, and he's not going to be any help at all, though maybe he'll be easier to trick. He still looks familiar, and Tony wracks his brain trying to remember where he might have seen the guy before in case it gives him a leg up on fooling him. With hair like that, maybe he'd been in one of the picket lines his dad has dragged him through, or maybe a worker at one of the factories, or maybe just a face in the crowd...except that Tony swears he remembers that face in black and white. In the newspaper, maybe, or an old--an old, _old_ photograph...?

His jaw drops. He tries to tell himself he's wrong, that he's imagining things, but now that he's seen it, he can't _unsee_ it. "Oh my God...you're Bucky Barnes!"

Bucky frowns and gives him a tiny headshake. "Who the hell is Bucky?"

"No, you _are_!" Tony insists, darting across the room to stare up at the guy. He can hardly believe his eyes, but he knows what he knows. "Look, my dad is like the _sacred keeper_ of all things Captain America, and that includes the Howling Commandos. You're James Buchanan Barnes, sergeant, 32557038."

Blue eyes go wide in a face that slowly pales. "What?"

"Name, rank and serial number," Tony explains impatiently. "I know _all_ that stuff. Born March 10th, 1917, best friends with Captain Rogers since childhood, the only Howling Commando to give his life in the war--although _that's_ clearly a lie. Look, I _know_ you. Even if you look a bit different," Tony says, scrambling up to kneel on one of the counters Bucky's wedged himself between, "you don't look that--"

He reaches for Bucky's head, intending to push the long hair back from his face, only to freeze as Bucky recoils, watching Tony wild-eyed as he tries to press his back right through the wall. It's like he thinks Tony's going to _hurt_ him, and that puts such a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach, he has to swallow twice to push the sickness down.

"Hey, no," he says more gently, still reaching out, because he knows how this goes. Only the people who are trying to bullshit you make a big show of giving in. The people who want to help keep pushing. "Come here a sec. Really."

Bucky hesitates, eyeing Tony warily, but after a false start, he stands away from the wall and creeps a half-step closer. His throat clicks as Tony takes hold of his hair, but he stands perfectly, horribly still as Tony tucks the long strands behind his ears, baring a face Tony would know anywhere.

"Yep," Tony says with a shaky smile, sitting back on his heels and resting his hands on his thighs. "You're Bucky Barnes."

"How do you know?"

Tony bites his lip. Bucky's not arguing; he just sounds lost. "I've only been seeing your picture my entire life," he says with a shrug. "My dad tells stories about you all the time--well, okay, mostly about Captain America, but you guys are in them too. You remember my dad, don't you? Howard Stark? If we went to see him--"

"I'm not to let you wander," Bucky cuts him off, face closing down.

Tony stills. He could...he's nearly positive he could escape, even with this particular babysitter set to mind him, but there's no way he can escape and just leave _Bucky Barnes_ behind with these assholes, whoever they are.

"Bucky," he says slowly, choosing his words with care. "I'm not asking you to let me wander. I'm asking you to rescue me." Bucky twitches, doubt creeping in at the edges of his expression. "Please. I need your help. I don't know what these guys have planned, but no one wakes up in a lab for anything good, and I'm guessing you probably know that. So, please. _Please_. Can you get me out?"

Blue eyes slide down and away, but they flick up to catch Tony's again an instant later. Bucky's nod is tiny, barely there, but it's all Tony needs. Sagging in relief, he reaches out to pat Bucky's arm, telegraphing his movements this time. "Thank you," he says earnestly, slipping off the counter and grimacing as his bare feet hit the floor. "Ugh. We're gonna need clothes, weapons--is that door even locked? I can probably jimmy it; I've had _loads_ of practice, if--"

"From the outside," Bucky breaks in quietly, making for the door with fast, confident strides completely at odds with his earlier hesitance. It's like now that he's got an objective in mind, he's a completely different person. "Badge to get in; anyone can get out."

"Really?" Tony asks skeptically. What exactly is a badge going to do? Do they show them to a guard? Are there cameras on the doors? "That doesn't seem very secure."

"The hard part's getting here," Bucky says, filling Tony's head with thoughts of patrols and checkpoints and ID cards they don't have access to. Maybe they should wait until the scientists return...only that Rumlow character was a pretty big guy, and Tony has no idea how Bucky would stack up against him in a fight. Would the metal armor let Bucky hit harder? Is he going to get to see Bucky Barnes punch a whole lot of people? It'll be just like the war, only instead of Captain America versus Hydra, it's the two of them versus...whoever these guys are. His dad is going to freak out completely when he hears. "Now keep quiet."

Tony mimes zipping his lips, even though he's practically on fire with questions. He knows how and when to be quiet, though. Jarvis and his Aunt Peg have been _really_ clear on that.

Bucky opens the door without fanfare, but there's no one stationed outside and no cameras Tony can see, just this weird, flat pad on the wall next to the door handle. Maybe it's decorative, but it's kind of ugly and plain. Then again, even in the movies, the bad guys rarely have anything like good taste.

Bucky strides off down the hall like he knows where he's going, so Tony trots gamely after him, one hand clutching the back of his oversized gown to make sure he's not flashing. The slap of his bare feet on the tile sounds totally out of place, and he just _knows_ someone's going to come investigate and raise the alarm.

When two men in dress shirts and their fathers' khakis round the corner right in front of them, Tony freezes, eyes darting to the nearest doors but hesitating. What if he chooses the wrong one or can't get inside, or what if he traps himself or tips off the wrong people and leaves Bucky to clean up his--

There's so little change in Bucky's demeanor, Tony doesn't realize Bucky's killed a man until the other backpedals with a gasp. Bucky just reaches out between one stride and the next, drags the man close with one hand and with the other breaks his neck, easy as snapping a twig. The second man goes down just as fast, lowered silently to the floor as Bucky crouches between the two and rifles through their pockets. He takes one man's ID badge and the other's keys, tucking the latter into a pocket so tight they don't even jingle.

When Tony's breath goes fast and harsh, Bucky glances up sharply with a concerned frown.

"You okay?" he asks in that soft, rusty voice that still sounds _safe_.

"You," Tony stammers, still staring at the bodies. "You just--"

Bucky glances down, following the direction of Tony's stare, and looks up again with a perplexed frown. Like there's nothing wrong. Like he can't even grasp why Tony's upset, because he didn't--

He didn't do anything wrong. He didn't do anything he hadn't done a hundred times in the war, and this-- _this_ is why Tony's dad thinks he's a screw-up, not because he's squeamish--he's _not_ \--but because he doesn't think things through. This isn't some comic book adventure, even if they are running from people with an actual evil lab in a presumably secret compound. No one's going to fall down with a 'biff' and a 'pow' and let them sneak away.

"S-sorry," Tony says in a shamefaced rush, drawing himself up like a trooper...he hopes. He's probably deadweight as far as Bucky's concerned, but at least he can try not to act like it. "What do we...won't someone see them?"

Bucky nods, and with a fast look up and down the corridor, he crosses to one of the unmarked doors and presses the ID badge he'd taken to the plan grey pad on the wall. The pad shrills a beep, and something in the wall clicks audibly. Only then does Bucky try the door knob, like he'd been waiting for that sound.

"Did that unlock the door?" Tony asks, wide-eyed. "Is that why we needed the badge? For an electronic lock?"

"Later," Bucky says shortly, but he doesn't sound irritated the way Tony's dad would have. He's just a bit busy, lifting a man in each hand and dragging them into what looks like a supply closet.

"Anything good in there?" Tony can't resist asking.

Bucky actually looks around, humoring him, before shaking his head. "Lightbulbs and copy paper."

Tony sighs. "I'd give a lot for shoes right now. Not to mention pants."

Bucky glances at Tony's feet with a frown. "I can carry you," he offers. It's not the response Tony's hoping for, but in a way it's comforting. Clearly Bucky isn't expecting to find a surplus of kids here to borrow clothes from.

"Only if you have to," he says, reminding himself that he'd chosen to use the word 'rescue' for a reason. He can't complain now if he gets treated like a kid because of it. "Let's go."

Bucky nods, setting off down the hall with a purposeful stride that Tony knows better than to take at face value. He has to wonder just how strong Bucky is to be able to just _snap necks_ like that--is it the armor? Is the armor more than just armor? Or does it have something to do with the fact that he's still alive, still young, when he ought to be pushing sixty? Tony's always heard that Captain America got the only dose of Dr. Erskine's serum, but if Bucky did as well, maybe they kept it top secret so Hydra wouldn't find out. Or maybe--

Tony stumbles.

Maybe it's something Hydra did when Bucky was captured, before Captain Rogers got him out.

Bucky glances back at him, and Tony slaps on a smile, shaking his head and giving Bucky a silent thumbs up. He's fine. He doesn't need to be coddled.

Bucky hesitates but nods again. This one feels encouraging, and Tony tightens his jaw, shoving down the thousand and one thoughts forever circling in his head in favor of just keeping up. They can do this. He just needs to not distract Bucky, or screw up and attract too much notice, or get caught up in his own head and lose focus on the here and now. Not that he's not paying attention, because he absolutely is. He just has questions, like where are they going, and why are they going _up_ , and was the lab really in the basement? Why the basement? And what did Bucky just _do_ to that guard, and was that an eyeball? That was an eyeball, wasn't it? And how does an eyeball unlock a door, and what are all these guns he's never even seen before?

"What...?" he asks faintly, turning around and around to stare at shelves and racks filled with equipment that looks half-familiar and half like it came straight out of a science fiction movie. "What is all this?"

"Weapons," Bucky replies as he starts claiming pistols seemingly at random, loading them by touch as his eyes skim the armory stores for the next item on his mental list. "Clothes will have to wait."

"I get that, but...where did these come from?" Are they Russian? He hopes they're not Russian. His dad talks sometimes about a Cold War, different and somehow scarier than the one going on right now in Vietnam. If these are the kinds of weapons the Soviets are making, then he gets why his dad spends so much time at the office.

Bucky shrugs. "They always give me weapons. I think you're too small for them, though."

"Yeah, um...I'm better with a screwdriver," Tony says with a nervous laugh. Does Bucky think he _wants_ a gun? Well, he does...sort of. He can wave it around at least, maybe make his kidnappers think twice about coming too close. He just can't seriously imagine using one, not even on one of the bad guys.

Studying him thoughtfully, Bucky nods once. "I can find you tools," he says, pulling down something that looks like a sleek, miniature rocket launcher combined with a really wicked gun from the last rack by the far door. That gets slung over his shoulder while Tony stands gaping, watching as Bucky stuffs his pockets with spare clips and shells and shiny silver spheres that make Tony's fingers itch to take them apart. "Quickly, now," Bucky warns. "If we make it to the garage without tripping an alarm, we'll have our choice of vehicles. If not, stay on my right."

"But you're right-handed, aren't you?" Tony asks with a frown.

Bucky doesn't quite smile as he holds out his left arm, but the shadows in his eyes lighten a fraction. "Bulletproof."

"Awesome," Tony breathes, bumping his fisted knuckles together to keep from latching on with both hands for a thorough examination.

They make it to the garage without a hitch, but Tony has to force himself to keep moving the further they get from the doors. It's worse than the armory, because even with his dad pushing the business at him, it's not like he's seen every gun in the world. But these _cars_. He spots something that _almost_ resembles a Slug Bug, a couple of Jeeps with shiny, colorful paint jobs, and one battered pickup that looks painfully out of place. All the others are too sleek or too big or too round. Too _new_.

He jumps a little when one of the vehicles beeps for no reason, flashing its lights once before going dark again, but Bucky makes right for it.

"Hey, Bucky?" he asks with all the bravado he can muster. "What year _is_ it, by the way?" He feels stupid even thinking it, but these cars, Bucky's guns, those electronic locks and the seriously gross one that required an eyeball: these things don't add up to 1975 to him.

Bucky shrugs, unconcerned. "It changes every time they wake me up," he says in a soft undertone. When he glances back, his blank expression has rearranged itself subtly with a tiny, sympathetic smile. "You get used to it."

Tony swallows, stuffing down fear and uncertainty in favor of trailing blindly after Bucky. If it's not the year he thinks it is, if he's been gone longer than he realizes, will his dad even recognize him? Will he even want to see him again, or has he been grateful all this time that someone else took that disappointment off his hands? Maybe showing up with Bucky Barnes in tow--not Captain America, but maybe good _enough_ \--will make the difference.

"Here," Bucky tells him quietly, pulling open the passenger door of a black truck-van-hybrid thing that seems to have been left unlocked. "Get down in the floorboards, and don't get up again until I tell you to."

He can do that. It's almost a relief to just curl up out of sight, let his confident expression drop and bury his head in his knees. He doesn't really need to see what happens when Bucky starts up the engine, drives right up to the guard at the checkpoint, and pulls a gun. The quiet punch of the silenced shot is descriptive enough.

They drive in silence for ten minutes before Bucky looks down, asking, "Where are we going?"

He's not sure. He's _really_ not sure, but Bucky sounds so calm, so matter-of-fact, like he's trusting Tony to have the answers. Tony can't just let him down, not without trying first. "721 5th Avenue," he says into his knees. "New York City."

Tony doesn't hear a response, but he'd bet anything that Bucky gives him a nod. "I'll find out where we are," Bucky says, so at ease amidst everything he doesn't know, Tony can only envy him. "And then I'll get us some clothes."

If Tony's laugh is a little watery, Bucky doesn't call him on it. "Clothes first," he says, rubbing at his eyes. "We stick out like a whole sore hand."

"Smart," Bucky says. He sounds like he means it.

Dropping his head back to his knees, Tony hugs that hint of praise to his chest and lets it warm him from the inside out.

***

Rumlow knows it's bad when Mannheim stops dead in the doorway, peering nervously around. "Uh...there was supposed to be a kid in here."

Rumlow shoulders past him, but sure enough, Stark is gone, and the asset is gone, and at this rate _they're_ going to be gone the moment Pierce hears. "Fuck!" What the hell did that little shit even do, challenge the asset to a game of hide-and-seek? He can't have actually compromised the Soldier, can he? "This," he growls through bared teeth, whipping around to glare at the eggheads. " _This_ is why you don't leave Stark awake and mobile, _ever_."

"Hey, it was your guy watching him," Mannheim snaps, puffing himself up as Johnston tries to make himself invisible at Mannheim's back. "Where the hell is the asset?"

Rumlow clenches his jaw. "I don't know," he grates, "but he's going to be the sorriest sonofabitch on earth when I find out."

***


	2. Chapter 2

The soldier doesn't remember where he learned to drive, when he learned about car alarms or automatic door locks. Taking the technician's keys had been an impulse he hadn't questioned, the way he hadn't questioned his initial handler's right to give him orders. There is always a Rumlow or someone like him when the soldier wakes, just like there are always orders.

The boy...the boy is something different.

He glances down at the small figure curled into the footwell of the SUV, dark head pressed to bony knees. The medical gown is a wrongness the soldier can't explain, though it sets his teeth on edge. The boy is too small, too young even for weapons, although--

_"Again," he orders, prowling a line of grim-faced little girls in severe uniforms. Rifle bolts chatter and snap as targets are sighted at the shadowy end of an indoor range. "Fire--"_

He blinks and shakes the memory off, concentrating on the busy road in front of him. They've left behind the industrial district that housed the base, but now the streets are lined with shops and restaurants, throngs of pedestrians littering the sidewalks. By his guess it's noon, and the roads are packed.

He glances down again, wondering if he should let the boy sit up, but he looks comfortable. He's safe there, out of sight. The soldier knows without knowing how that it's very important no one see. A boy in a medical gown is disturbing.

The boy is entirely too young to survive that.

The soldier drives aimlessly at first, as much to confuse any possible tails as from unfamiliarity with the city. When he spots the first signs of a residential area, he heads that way immediately. He'd much rather do what's necessary under cover of night, but they can't afford to linger. Beyond the mission to escape, he was given two directives: weapons and clothes. So far he's only fulfilled one, and the oversight nags at him relentlessly.

When the boy lifts his head at last, his face is composed though his eyes are red. The soldier doesn't know what made the boy cry, but the soldier knows that sometimes there is no reason. Not wanting to scare the boy, he pretends not to see. The boy may not understand that the soldier isn't a handler, that there will be no punishment.

"Have we left the city?" the boy asks, staring up from the floorboards through the passenger window. Likely all he can see are trees and power lines.

"Not yet," the soldier replies. "We're in the suburbs. Clothes," he explains and watches the boy's frown clear.

"We're going to break into a house?"

" _I_ am," the soldier corrects him. "You're going to stay put a little longer."

The boy's expression briefly turns mulish, but a glance down at himself has the boy sighing in defeat. It's interesting. The soldier can't recall anyone, even a child, wanting so badly to be a part of his missions, though his experiences with children have been few.

_"Faster," he barks amidst the sound of chambered rounds. "The enemy won't give you time to reload--"_

And there's a man, a man who handles the handlers, who backhands the soldier with all his strength, screaming that he's defective, should be put down, as a little boy wedged into a corner of the room shakes and stares at the pool of blood that had once been an assassin--

\--or it's the little boy who's hit, who's shaken by his father's rough hand, is told to toughen up, that men like the asset don't take orders from sniveling weaklings.

And there's the boy, _this_ boy, who stares in horror at two dead men and then puts it aside, stares at him earnest and clear-eyed and keeps his wits about him, who cries the moment he's safe and not an instant before.

Maybe the soldier shouldn't have done that--killed those men in front of the boy. His memories are conflicted. He'd had no directive either way, had acted purely in the interest of safety and speed, but he is routinely asked for more difficult things simply because he's capable.

He can't risk failing his mission, but he can test its parameters, at least until he's given clear orders. He'll be more cautious next time.

He chooses a house based on the miniature bike he spots chained to a post on an empty carport, the stack of mail beginning to overflow the box hanging by the door. He leaves most of the guns in the SUV. They'll need to get rid of their current vehicle very soon; it may not have a tracker, but it won't be difficult to find and trace the plate number. He justifies prioritizing his remaining objective with the knowledge that they'll be able to move far more freely if they look like everyone else.

"Stay hidden," he cautions, though he's not sure the warning is needed. The boy is smart. "I won't be long."

The boy nods, chewing on his lower lip as his face settles into an odd mixture of fear, resignation and shame.

"Promise," the soldier says, surprising even himself. Of course he'll be quick; they're being hunted.

The boy ducks his head but can't hide the relief that washes over him, relaxing the tight clench of his shoulders.

The soldier doesn't know what to make of it, so he focuses on the mission, slipping out of the SUV and closing the door quietly behind him. He'd parked on the block behind his target, in another empty carport. It's child's play to sneak around the back, vault the fence and make his stealthy way through two back yards to the rear entrance of the house he's marked.

Seeing no signs of an alarm, he forces the door and lets himself in cautiously. He doesn't expect the owners, but sometimes there are dogs. When the house remains silent, he strikes out more boldly, aware that their time is limited.

He finds the children's room first, empties a red-and-gold backpack with strange, robotic faces on the pockets. The clothes he finds will probably be too big, but better that than too small. He shoves socks, underwear, two pairs of jeans and two colorful T-shirts into the pack. Both of the shirts feature a flying robot that matches the faces on the backpack. The soldier takes this to mean the boy will blend in well. Shoes are crammed in on top, and after taking a hooded windbreaker from the closet, the soldier crosses the hall into the parents' room.

The family pictures downstairs had featured a husky man in his thirties grinning through a full beard in a number of wilderness locations. The soldier expects to find mostly flannel and camouflage in the closet, but instead there are a variety of suits. He pulls on a dark, hooded sweatshirt and a denim jacket over that, tugging a baseball cap down over his eyes. His tac pants and boots will keep for now; he's seen similar on civilians on recent ops.

On a whim he checks the office next door and then the top drawer of a desk groaning under the weight of two computers and three monitors. The wiring kit and screwdriver set he finds get stuffed into his pockets for immediate use once he returns to the boy.

Before he leaves he makes a fast sweep of the family room, finding a stack of old bills and bank statements stacked up in a pile on a lamp table. The street address is for Alexandria, Virginia, and a quick perusal of the sagging shelves nets him a well-thumbed road atlas, ten years out of date: the most current of the family's bills had been issued in 2014. The same shelf holds a mason jar filled with loose change, mostly silver but with a scattering of crumpled notes as well. He upends this into the cargo pocket on the backpack, tucks the travel-sized Rand McNally in after, and heads for the door.

"Here," he says as he pulls the driver's side door open, passing over the backpack and jacket as the boy looks up with a start. The relief is even more apparent on the boy's face, coupled with a gratitude the soldier doesn't understand. He has never failed to complete a mission, though it's true he was assigned this one by unorthodox means. Unorthodox but legitimate: he doesn't know who programmed him with the words and numbers the boy rattled off so confidently, but he knows the trigger is old, superseding all other masters. "You can change in the back. We need to get moving."

"Do you think they're following us?" the boy asks, scrambling out of the footwell and over the armrests to tumble into the backseat, not waiting for a response. The boy pulls the backpack after himself and attacks the zippers with gusto. "You found cash? And a map--that's great!"

The soldier allows himself a quiet thrill of pride. The boy is easy to please, but praise is a rare occurrence, much less the opportunity to enjoy it.

"So where are we?"

"Clothes first," he orders as he starts the SUV's engine and backs out of the drive. The boy's enthusiasm for missions makes that seem a reasonable precaution.

"Okay, okay," the boy grumbles amidst a rustling of cloth. "But where?"

"Alexandria, Virginia," the soldier replies, his eyes roving constantly from the street ahead to his mirrors. He was quick, but they've been parked too long. His arm can wait until they've moved again, hopefully the last stop they'll need to make before beginning the drive to New York.

"Virginia? Are we close to DC? My dad has to go there sometimes. He doesn't like it much. Hey, T-shirts! I don't get to wear these very often--Mom says they're tacky, and I should look like 'a proper gentleman'," he sing-songs in a tone of disgust. "Anyway, if we're close to DC, that's hours and hours away."

"How many?"

"Like...four? Maybe five. I think it depends on traffic, but Dad usually leaves around eight, and then he 'does lunch' on the Hill, so, four? I could plot a course for us, if you want."

"You'll be my navigator," the soldier agrees. The boy's advice has been good so far. "Do the clothes fit?"

"Well, the shoes are a bit big."

The soldier has the strangest feeling he should have picked up a newspaper while he was in the house. "Double up your socks," he suggests instead.

When the boy scrambles back into the front seats, road atlas clutched in one hand, it's clear the shoes weren't the only article requiring a creative solution. The shirt and the waist of the stolen jeans are an adequate fit, but the pants cuffs have been rolled up at least twice. The boy shoots him a look, but the soldier knows better than to poke fun. Just because they're friends--

The soldier frowns. "Are we friends?" Perhaps that makes sense. The boy is neither a handler nor a mission, but the soldier feels comfortable accepting his directives.

The boy stares owlishly until he pulls himself together with a decisive nod. "Yes," he says firmly. "Absolutely."

The soldier nods. He'll be sure not to tease the boy about his height, then. He doesn't want the little guy angry at him.

In ordinary street clothes, the boy looks startlingly normal, and the part of the soldier that had been growing more and more agitated each time he saw the hospital gown quiets at last. The conviction that he can prevent it feels reckless, but the thought of the boy being experimented on, broken and remade--or sick, struggling for breath, or feverish and pale--is abhorrent. He won't allow it. Not ever.

That means he needs to remember. He can't ever forget this, can't ever let himself be made to forget. That means no chair, no Hydra. "I'm not going back," he says aloud. The thought is...surprising.

"What? Of course you're not!" the boy protests, scandalized. "You're coming with me! What else did you think?"

He honestly hadn't thought that far at all. He's been trained to focus on the mission and no further; at best he'd vaguely assumed he'd return when his current mission is complete, that he'd accept his punishment and be given new orders. That's no longer an option.

"Bucky," the boy says seriously. "Whatever happens, you're not going back there. I'll make sure of it."

The soldier nods. The boy's directives are always sound.

He spots a likely change of vehicle at the edge of a superstore's vast parking lot, a cherry-red Mustang old enough that he can hotwire it with ease, well cared-for enough that it shouldn't break down on them on the way. "Why are we stopping?" the boy asks as he pulls in beside it. "Are we changing cars?"

"Yes."

"To which one? That one?" The soldier nods. "Do you think this one has a tracker?"

"No," he says, reaching into the pockets of his stolen jacket. He'll give the tools to the boy after; he had...promised, after all.

"Then why--oh. I guess it wouldn't be too hard for them to figure out whose car we took. They could just report it stolen and put out an APB on it, huh?"

The soldier nods as he shrugs out of the jacket and sweatshirt. The boy's suggestion is a lower-tech option than what he expects from the resources Hydra has at hand, but it's a reasonable concern.

"Huh. So I guess you know how to hotwire a car," the boy says as the soldier finds the catches on the underside of his arm's plating and gingerly triggers them. The order hasn't changed. This is good. "Cool. Can you teach me? I mean, Jarvis says putting me behind the wheel is trouble we shouldn't borrow until I'm at _least_ sixteen, but what if I really, really need to--oh my _God_."

The soldier looks up sharply, expecting trouble, but the boy is staring at his arm, eyes enormous.

"You--you've got a robot _arm_? You've got a _robot arm_. That--that's _amazing_ , oh my _God_." Far from being afraid, the boy seems awestruck, though he frowns as the soldier begins poking around with the screwdriver, prying cables aside. "Wait, what are you doing?"

"Removing my own tracker," the soldier replies. He knows the general location; the arm had been damaged once, and he vividly recalls his handler's unease until both arm and tracker had been repaired. Judging by where the damage had occurred--

"Wait, wait, wait!" the boy protests, grabbing his hand. "Do you even know what you're doing? Look, give me the screwdriver--"

"It's not--" the soldier begins, but the boy waves his arms, talking over him.

"No, really, it's fine--I built my first circuit board when I was still a _baby_. If something needs to come out, let me do it."

"It could be trapped," the soldier argues, clenching his fingers tighter when the boy tries to pry the screwdriver out of his hand.

"All the more reason for me to do it," the boy insists, meeting his eyes steadily with his chin thrust out. "I can probably get around it. Or don't you trust me?"

The soldier frowns. "I trust you," he says, watching curiously as the boy's ears turn red. "I don't want you getting hurt."

"And I _won't_. Honest. Just give me a chance, and I'll prove it. Okay?"

It's against the soldier's better judgment, but when the boy makes another try for the screwdriver, the soldier lets him have it. The boy flashes him a brilliant, triumphant smile, and then he's wiggling around in the seat to sit up on his knees, reaching for the soldier's arm with the confidence of a veteran technician. The soldier moves as he's asked, bracing his hand on the steering wheel as the boy picks delicately at wires and cables, bottom lip caged between his teeth as he works.

"I think...this bit here isn't actually connected to anything," the boy says after a silent few minutes. "It's anchored; there's just no connection. And it's rubbing against the cable here too. If it's not hooked up to anything, I don't see how it could be trapped--"

"Contact points?" the soldier asks.

The boy's brows shoot up, and he leans in closer, the tip of his tongue settling in the corner of his mouth as he turns the soldier's arm this way and that. "No...no, I don't think so. It's in a really bad place for that--that's a core strut right underneath it, so there's not a lot of give, not like with the cables. Only problem is, it looks like it's welded on."

"Show me where," the soldier says. "I can pry it up. The metal's stronger than you'd think," he adds at the boy's pained grimace.

Under the boy's careful guidance, the soldier pulls off his tracker and tosses it into the floorboards. There's always the possibility that there are others, but they don't have time to make a thorough inspection now. Hydra will be homing in on their location, could already be breathing down their necks. They need to move, and fast.

Tossing the guns he'd shed into the backpack the boy had mostly emptied, he pulls on the sweatshirt and denim jacket for cover and slips out of the SUV after a quick look around. The thin metal rod he keeps in his sleeve is right where it should be, and it's the work of seconds to jimmy the door of the Mustang, the body of the SUV blocking him from sight. Once he has the door open, he jerks his head at the boy, who practically dives out of one vehicle and into the next, clutching the backpack full of guns to his chest as he scrambles through the driver's side into the passenger seat. Leaning back into the SUV, the soldier retrieves the grenade launcher he hopes not to need and tucks it alongside the gear shift as he slides behind the Mustang's wheel.

Avid eyes watch his every move as he hotwires the car, and while he makes no attempt to slow down for his audience, he angles his hands so he doesn't obstruct the view. The boy is right: dangerous or not, it's something he may one day need to know.

"Have you worked out a route?" he asks as the engine roars to life.

The boy jumps, scrabbling at his backpack to pull out the atlas. "Sorry, you're right, I should've had that done, just--give me one second, and I'll have it, I promise--"

"We have time," the soldier cuts him off, though it isn't precisely true. It... _angers_ him to know the boy has already had one handler too many. That the boy won't have another is another promise he makes himself. "I'll start driving. You correct my course."

"Sure," the boy says quickly, "yes, I can definitely do that."

He watches carefully for possible tails, but it seems they're in luck. Either they've moved fast enough to keep ahead of Hydra, or the operatives sure to be hunting them are hanging back, hoping for a more opportune moment to strike.

"Is that US-50?" the boy asks ten minutes later, pointing to a sign up ahead. "We need to be on that."

The soldier nods, remembering to flick on his turn signal before shifting lanes. Slow and steady does it. "Are you hungry?" he asks, dim memories nudging at the back of his mind. Children on long trips require more care than soldiers. "Thirsty? Need the bathroom?"

"I'm fine."

The soldier snorts. "Not what I asked."

"I know," the boy says stubbornly. "But I'm fine."

Worried, probably. They really do need to keep moving. "An hour," the soldier decides. "We'll pull over then. It'll give us a chance to see if we've picked up any tails."

"All right," the boy mumbles, head sinking between drawn-up shoulders. Clearly he thinks this is a ploy, one too obvious to salve his pride.

"And I'll need you to take a closer look at my arm," the soldier adds in a moment of inspiration. "There may be another tracking device."

That captures the boy's attention. Dark eyes spear him with avid curiosity that sweeps away the initial burst of suspicion. "Can I?" the boy asks, hugging the road atlas to his chest. "Because I've never seen anything like it. It's just--it's _amazing_. Can you feel with it? What does it _do_? I mean, does it do anything that a regular arm wouldn't? It looks _really_ strong. Does it make you stronger? What happens if you punch somebody with it? Have you ever punched anybody with it? I bet it's _really_ impressive."

One corner of the soldier's mouth twitches, the expression there and gone. At least the boy's acting like himself again. Letting his arm be pawed at by idle hands is a small price to pay.

***

Clint's never been a fan of SHIELD's DC office--too many bigwigs wanting to micromanage things best left to the agents in the field--and he's perfectly happy to avoid the place this time. New York's more his speed: somebody yells at you to get shit done then actively fucks off and lets you do it. The part he never likes (but maybe secretly loves) is when the order comes from Fury through Captain America, because Avengering tends to take all his notions about what's too ridiculous to ever actually happen and blow them out of the water.

He maybe has a reputation for stealthy entrances, but today he walks in through the front doors, because who does he have to impress? The afternoon crowd around the water cooler? Certainly not Natasha, who links up with him in the lobby like two parts of a well-oiled machine. Like him she's already in her gear, ready to move at a moment's notice. She's got a Stark tablet in one hand that she keeps glancing at, like she expects the map display to update the minute she takes her eyes off it, and there's a tension around her eyes that translates to a worried frown on anyone else.

"Hey," he greets her, falling in step and following her lead as she cuts through the lobby, heading for the back entrance. "Any clue why we've been called to assemble? Cap wasn't too forthcoming over the phone."

"It's Stark," she says, surprising him a little, because the usual eye roll over Stark's latest shenanigans is decidedly absent. "Seems he went missing yesterday and may actually be out of commission. According to JARVIS, his suits have been triggered six times in the last thirty-two hours, but never for long enough for them to actually reach him. The most JARVIS has been able to manage is triangulating his position."

"So another kidnapping, then. What's the prize if he collects five punches on his card?"

Nat gives him a look, but she can tell his heart's not in the joke. "A tracker that works?" she suggests a little too sweetly, half-smiling at his wince. The thing is, even though Stark can be a royal pain in the ass, they _like_ the guy. You can't fight off an alien invasion with someone you don't _like_. "JARVIS hasn't been able to pick up a clear signal, and what has come through has been spotty, like there's been physical damage to the suit implants."

"Okay, Iron Man's down. I can definitely see why this is a job for the Avengers, but...why now?" he has to ask. "What makes this time more serious than that mess with the Mandarin?" He would've liked to have been involved in that; assassins are kind of his bag, and the plot twist had been _hilarious_.

"Oh, I haven't told you the best part," Nat says with a fake-flirty smile that means he's _really_ not going to like the next bit. "The first two times the suits got triggered? He was supposed to be in a meeting with Nick at the Triskelion."

Clint follows along for two whole steps before his brain catches up. "Wait, run that by me again? Are you saying--"

"Iron Man was snatched right out from under SHIELD's nose," Natasha says grimly. "Nick was sidelined coming back from an earlier meeting--supposedly a little fender-bender, except that the other driver's disappeared. By the time he cleared Medical, Stark had already left the building."

"So why aren't we in DC?"

"Nick's handling the inquiry there, and Stark's already been moved," Natasha says, passing him her tablet. It's showing a US road map, so at least Stark's probably still in the country. There are six dots on the screen: two in DC, two in nearby Alexandria, and one not far from Baltimore, maybe an hour away. The last is a little ways out from Philadelphia, forming an almost straight line that looks too obvious to be true.

"Is he on the I-95?"

Natasha hunches a shoulder. "It's possible." It just doesn't seem plausible; he gets that.

"You said he went missing yesterday. What's the timing on these?" he asks as they cut down a corridor at the last minute, heading not for the back exit but for a stairwell that will take them down to the motor pool beneath the building.

"The first two signals came within minutes of each other, both from within SHIELD headquarters," Natasha says as they head down the stairs, double-time. "The third came the next morning around nine, the fourth just before noon."

"Wait, three hours?" Clint demands, outrage churning in his gut. "Three hours between, and no one scrambled the first time? Where the hell was Rogers? Isn't he based out of DC?"

"On a solo mission," Nat says, lips pursing unhappily. "And Nick was under a communications blackout, sequestered with Pierce over the security breach."

Clint shakes his head. "Fucking Pierce." Now there's a micromanager for the record books. "They at least sent a STRIKE team, yeah?"

"Rogers', but under Agent Rumlow. Rogers was on his way back in at the time, but now they've routed him up here."

"And these last two signals?" Clint asks, handing Natasha back the tablet.

"At roughly one o'clock and three o'clock." That last was a little over an hour and a half ago; if Stark's goal is New York, he could potentially be in the city right now.

"Like he's just...taking a little road trip. Without calling ahead or letting anyone know what's going on." Something about that drops a creeping shiver down his spine, but it's a little too easy to imagine Stark driving blind, on autopilot or worse, no longer in control of his own actions. "You think he's coming here?"

The tablet chimes. When Nat glances down, the map zooms in automatically, a seventh dot flashing on a dense city grid. Nat frowns. "I think he went home," she says, mouth twisting strangely.

"To the Tower?"

She shakes her head. "To the old Stark Mansion."

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Same as before, and also a small panic attack.

It's almost impossible to find street parking anywhere near the mansion during rush hour, but Bucky's _good_. He zips into a spot almost before it's vacated, ignoring the angry honking of the driver behind him. They're still blocks and blocks away, and part of Tony wishes they could just drive right up to the mansion's front gate, but he knows why it's not an option. The people who kidnapped him might already have lookouts in place, and beyond that, he still doesn't know what he's coming home to.

He'd been tempted to call--he'd been right near a payphone twice--but he'd talked himself out of the idea both times. His mom _might_ do the mom thing and cry or scream for a bit before handing off the phone to Jarvis while she goes to lie down, but if he doesn't give his dad time to think about it first, maybe his dad won't get angry at all. He really, really doesn't want his dad to get angry in front of Bucky. He would seriously rather crawl into a hole and _die_ than get yelled at with Bucky watching, and never mind that Bucky thinks they're friends. Bucky had been his dad's friend first.

Bucky casts him a calm, assessing look as he disconnects his impromptu wiring, the Mustang's engine sputtering out. It's weird, because Bucky's face isn't very expressive at all--he's nothing like the smiling joker in the pictures--but it doesn't creep Tony out one bit. There's no _meanness_ in Bucky no matter what he's doing. Tony doesn't have to wonder what Bucky's really thinking when he looks over to check up on him; if Bucky wants him to do something, change something, Bucky tells him. If he's silent, it's not because he's tallying up all the ways Tony has disappointed him. He just doesn't have anything to say.

Tony realizes he must look more nervous than ever when Bucky doesn't look away.

"You okay?" Bucky asks, watching him patiently as Tony dredges up a smile.

"Sure, yeah. Of course. Just wondering how my dad's going to take all this," he admits, feeling guilty now for not warning _someone_ that they're coming. Why didn't he at least call Jarvis? Maybe Jarvis could have talked his parents around, brought the idea up slowly. Tony's been so focused on his own worries, he's forgotten Bucky has a stake in this too.

Bucky nods once, which is usually the end of a topic, but this time he adds, "Stick close. If anything happens, do exactly what I tell you."

Tony starts to nod in turn, then frowns. "You're not...I meant it when I said you're not going back there," he says, second-guessing his words at the last minute. It feels presumptuous to think Bucky might do something stupid just to keep him safe, but if he's honest, Bucky already _has_.

"Neither are you," Bucky says, so mildly it could mean nothing at all, but Tony hears it as a promise. "Even if it looks like we're going to be separated, you do what I say. I'll catch up."

He's pretty sure Bucky means _after_ he mows down everything in his path, but that's...not necessarily a bad thing. Whoever took Tony, messed with Bucky's head--they need to be stopped. Surely that's something his dad can help with; he knows everybody, and everybody owes him favors. They just have to get to him in the first place.

"Okay," Tony says firmly, "just so long as you do. I'm not leaving you behind."

The tiniest of smiles tugs at the corners of Bucky's mouth, but his eyes are warm, not mocking. "Understood," he says formally, like he's taking orders from on high.

Tony nods. "Good."

Bucky hesitates before letting Tony sling the backpack of guns onto his own shoulders, but he gives in after a vaguely wistful look at his scary rocket-launcher-gun thing. "We may not be coming back to this," he admits. "We should take anything we need, just in case."

That means their guns--well, _Bucky's_ guns--and their map for sure. Tony hesitates over the spare jeans and shirt--his own clothes are maybe fifteen minutes away--but they're not taking up much space, and they don't have so much stuff between them that they're risking leaving anything important behind. The spare clothes keep the guns from rattling together anyway.

He slides out of the car when Bucky does but waits by the door, minding his manners. He considers reaching for Bucky's hand like he's seen other kids do, only maybe Bucky will want both hands free in case he has to fight, or maybe Tony's too old to make that look natural. Jarvis still makes Tony hold his hand sometimes, but Jarvis is afraid of losing him. It's probably best if Tony just concentrates on keeping up.

Then Bucky reaches for _him_ , automatic as breathing, and Tony has no choice but to give in. It's good for their disguise, anyway.

Even with Bucky curbing his strides, Tony has to walk smartly to match his pace. Bucky keeps his left hand tucked in his jacket pocket, but he makes it look natural, walking with his chin up, shoulders loose. He barely looks at the streets around them, which is balanced out by how Tony can't _stop_ looking. Tony's a kid, though; he's allowed.

It hadn't seemed so bad when they were driving in. The biggest, oldest landmarks haven't changed: the sunburst arches of the Chrysler Building's crown, the needle spire of the Empire State Building and the long span of the Brooklyn Bridge. The moment he'd seen those, he'd breathed a sigh of relief, knowing he was home.

Now, deep in the heart of the city, he's getting his nose rubbed again in proof that he's lousy at thinking things through. The landmarks even the tourists can name may not have changed, but the streets of Manhattan are so different from what Tony recalls, they could almost be in another city. No one is dressed the way he remembers, and those who do look a little familiar are trying so hard they look ridiculous. Even a lot of the storefronts have changed; the bookstore and the barber shop are still there, but the little mom and pop diner is now a...juice bar? What the heck is a _juice bar_? Is that slang? Code? Why _juice_?

Bucky seems on-edge as well, his face giving nothing away while his fingers twitch now and then in their careful curl around Tony's hand. Tony hasn't asked how much Bucky's forgotten, knowing only that it's got to be bad. When the eerie strangeness of a city he saw just yesterday starts to overwhelm him, Tony tries to imagine how it must look to Bucky and reminds himself it could be worse.

As freaked out as they both are, no one gives them a second glance, not even the pair of cops who pull up to the light on Bucky's left. Bucky shoots them a disinterested glance, like he and Tony aren't carrying a mountain of guns between them, but only the people they're running from concern Bucky. Cops don't worry him at all.

"You hungry?" Bucky asks as they pass a parked delivery truck someone is apparently making food out of. Tony shoots him an incredulous look as they stop--that's a _truck_ and someone is making _food_ inside it--but Bucky doesn't seem interested in the likely-questionable contents of the vehicle. His eyes rove the street, pausing on glass display windows that reflect like mirrors and tracking the occasional pedestrian.

"Maybe just a water?" Tony says, holding back a grimace and trying his best to play along.

Bucky glances down at him, a hint of amusement in the faint crinkles around his eyes. "Well," he says, "we are nearly home."

Tony's so relieved he's not going to have to eat any weird truck food, he can't even bring himself to feel guilty at cutting Bucky's reconnaissance short. Then again, he already knows Bucky doesn't like to stay in one place for long. Maybe he's happy Tony gave him an excuse to keep moving.

It's been the exact opposite the rest of the afternoon, Bucky having made not one but _two_ stops for Tony on the way. The first is going to give Tony nightmares, even though nobody caught them and nobody got hurt. He's never going to forget the panic of finding that second tracker: older and busted, only that one was wired in, and Bucky nearly hadn't let him pick it apart, preferring to rip it out without worrying about the damage he might cause himself.

Just a few hours later, they'd pulled in at a truck stop outside Philadelphia just so Tony could use the bathroom, and suddenly every driver passing through had looked like a potential kidnapper to him. He'd had to take a moment to remind himself to breathe, because all he could think was that if they got caught because of something so stupid, it would be all his fault. There wasn't even a single thing he could do to help, no matter how hard he wished otherwise. There still isn't, but maybe taking Bucky to his dad will make up for it.

Tony's heart starts thumping harder when he spots the tall brick wall surrounding the mansion, and it's all he can do not to rush ahead and drag Bucky along with him. "This is it," he says under his breath, hand tightening unconsciously on Bucky's until he notices and makes himself ease up.

Bucky nods. He neither hurries nor slows his stride, but something Tony can't quite put his finger on changes. Where before Bucky could pass for a regular guy, now he looks like someone you might want to steer clear of. Tony feels a little bit invincible walking at Bucky's side and can't quite make up his mind whether he should be embarrassed by it or not.

Right beside the gate that blocks off the driveway, there's a small door set into the wall, and Tony darts up to it as Bucky drops his hand. Bucky pauses at Tony's back, watching the street and shielding Tony from view, head turning minutely as if listening for trouble. Tony doesn't even wonder whether the passcode on the door may have changed until he's already started punching numbers into the keypad, but the lock beeps and blinks green before he can panic.

Pushing the door open, Tony ducks through in a hurry, stepping to the side to get out of Bucky's way. They're probably saf _er_ now, but Tony won't kid himself that they're safe. Not until his dad hears them out and has a chance to call in a few favors, or whatever it is he does to make problems disappear. Maybe Aunt Peg could help. She'd known Bucky too, hadn't she?

Bucky slips in after him and pushes the door closed, trying it once to make sure it's locked. At Tony's uncertain look--what if they need to make a quick getaway?--Bucky shrugs. "A wall's not going to stop me."

That may just be the coolest thing anyone has ever said to him. Well, the second coolest, right after Bucky saying he wanted _Tony_ to look at his arm.

"Come on," Tony says, ducking his head with a stupid grin he hopes Bucky doesn't notice. "I guess I don't actually know if my dad's home right now or not, but Jarvis should be, and _someone's_ gonna know where Dad is, so, um...follow me?"

Bucky nods, falling in step right behind him and a little to the left, eyes roving the grounds with the incessant watchfulness of a wild animal. He looks ready to bolt in any direction, ready to go on the attack at a moment's notice, and it belatedly occurs to Tony that the manicured lawn and well-tended path to the front door offer no cover at all.

"One sec," Tony promises, dashing the last few yards and up the steps to the front door. Jarvis is usually on hand to open it, but lingering fear makes Tony hesitate to knock. What if they don't believe him? He still hasn't asked Bucky how long it's been, what year it is now, and it would make sense, wouldn't it? For someone to find a kid who looks like him, give him a bit of training and send him in to see if his dad can be fooled. By letting himself in, he's already one up on any imposter.

There's a combo lock on the front door--he'd thought it was state of the art before he learned about electronic locks--and it's still in place. The passcode is even the same, and he can't resist throwing a triumphant grin over his shoulder as the lock disengages. "We're in!" he crows, like they've just pulled off the trickiest stage of a heist, and pushes the door open without looking. "Come on," he says, stepping inside, "let's see if my dad--"

He stops dead barely two feet inside, throat drying up as he sees what's waiting for them.

The lights are all off, the furniture covered in drop cloths gone grey with dust. A single pair of footprints leading away from the front door mar the hardwood floors, but they're half-obscured as well. It looks like nobody's been here in _years_ , but...that's not right. Jarvis is always home, but maybe that's because Tony's always home, and someone has to look after him. With Tony gone....

Bucky's hand settles at the back of Tony's pack, pushing him gently inside so Bucky can shut the door behind them. If Bucky's troubled by this development, it doesn't show on his face.

"I...they're all gone," Tony says in a small voice. This isn't what he'd imagined at all. "But there's _always_ someone here."

"Who's taking care of the grounds?"

Tony shakes his head jerkily. "There's people who do that. Not on staff. What...what year did you say it was again?" he asks at last, throat tightening around the words.

Bucky hesitates to answer for the first time, his eyes sad. "2014."

Tony's face goes cold as all the blood rushes from his cheeks, the world swaying around him. 2014? That's...that's thirty-nine _years_. His dad would be...God, _Jarvis_ would be....

He can't breathe. He wants to crouch down in a little ball and pull an entire fortress around himself, wants to run and run and _run_ from the knowledge until it just goes away. He wants Bucky to be lying but knows he isn't, and he can't--he honestly _can't breathe_ \--

"Hey," Bucky says quietly, crouching down beside him. His big hand envelops Tony's nape completely, warm and solid. "It's okay. You're okay. Just breathe with me, all right? No, don't try to force it, just listen. That's it. Nice and easy."

Bucky's deep breaths are loud, but their calm, patient rhythm pulls him into their cadence until his lungs stop hitching and his breath stops wheezing in his panic-strangled throat. Tony's eyes prickle with mortified tears, but Bucky holds his gaze steadily, without judgment. Bucky looks like he understands, and that makes Tony want to cry _for_ Bucky, only they don't have time for that.

"If...if the mansion's deserted," Tony says, scrubbing an arm quickly across his eyes, "then we're not safe here." He's not sure now that they're going to be safe _anywhere_. There's no way he's taking Bucky to the police--Bucky's killed people _today_ \--which crosses the FBI off his list as well. If his dad's even still alive, he's got to be ancient--Aunt Peg, too--and Tony doesn't know anyone else, no one who's useful. But if they are still alive--if he can find them, get to them--maybe they'll know what to do.

Bucky nods. "Do you need anything from here before we leave?"

"I--yeah. My--well, my shoes, I guess," he says, trying on a smile that wobbles only a little. "My old clothes would probably look weird now. And then we need to look through Dad's office. Maybe we can find out where he went, or Aunt Peg, or...anybody. And there's money in the safe, or at least there was."

Bucky rises, his hand resting briefly on Tony's head as he straightens. He sort of wishes Bucky would keep it there, but he's not a baby. He's a Stark, which means he's got to be smarter than the people chasing them, and part of being smart is knowing when to tough things out.

Tony leads the way upstairs to his old room, bracing himself to find it empty or converted to guest quarters, but it's worse than that. Shelves packed with books he doesn't recognize bracket a newer, bigger desk cluttered with half-finished projects he's only dreamed of starting. There's a robotic claw arm, a pile of circuit boards that make his own first attempt look like a kid's Lego project, tiny motors and twists of wire and tools far better than the hand-me-downs his dad lets him use. The bed's bigger too, and when he grimly pushes the closet door open, the clothes he finds are all adult-sized.

Thirty-nine years is a long time. He shouldn't be so surprised he's been replaced.

"Never mind," he chokes out. He's _not_ going to cry. "We can get better clothes later. Let's check out the study and get out of here."

Bucky follows without protest and even takes over once Tony leads him to the right room. Watching Bucky systematically rifle through drawers and cabinets gives him something to focus on besides the questions he doesn't _want_ to ask, like how long it took them to try for another kid, and whether this one's smarter than him, better than him, if the new kid even knows he has a brother at all. An older brother, even, which is...not something he wants to think about either, so he watches Bucky instead.

Lucky for him, watching Bucky is mesmerizing. Everything he touches gets returned exactly where it came from, so neatly Tony would never know anyone's been here at all. Bucky's fast, too; he seems to know at a glance exactly what's worth examining and what can be ignored.

"How do you know what to look for?" Tony asks, unable to contain himself. "Did somebody teach you? I mean, I guess somebody had to've, but was it spy training or something? Covert ops? Was it an SSR thing?" It probably wasn't, but he really hopes that Bucky will say it was.

"I don't remember," Bucky says, flipping through a date book only to set it aside with a frown. "I don't think we're going to find anything useful here. Everything's from 1991 or before."

Tony gnaws his lower lip. "They must've bought another house somewhere. You didn't see any other addresses?" Bucky shakes his head. "Maybe there'll be something in the safe."

Hoisting himself up onto the half-sized shelf behind his dad's desk, Tony sits up on his knees and swings the wide-framed family portrait aside. The safe's location is blatantly obvious--or maybe Tony's watched too many murder-mysteries--but the trick to opening it is something special. Dialing in the combination, he turns the handle just like he's seen his dad do but doesn't open the door. He waits for the click instead, then dials the combination all over again.

Bucky glances at him with an arched brow, a spark of curiosity in his eyes slowly gaining strength.

Tony shrugs. "I don't actually know what happens if you open it then," he admits. "I just know my dad rigged it somehow, so _I'm_ not gonna mess with it. Dad doesn't play around."

They find the deed to the mansion, old stocks and bonds, ownership papers for a yacht and a small fleet of cars, but no hint of another residence. "Great," Tony groans, slumping and sitting inelegantly back on his heels. He nearly leans back too far until Bucky nudges him to turn around, sit properly. "Now what do we do?"

"Your father--he's important? Famous?" Bucky asks.

"Pretty famous," Tony says, seesawing his hand back and forth. "I mean, not like a movie star or anything, but he does own Stark Industries, and there was all that stuff with the war, so...yeah, I guess."

"We can look him up on the internet, then."

Tony frowns. "The what?"

Bucky starts to answer, then shuts his mouth again, shaking his head. "It's easier to show you."

"But what _is_ it?"

"Information." Bucky hunches a shoulder, casting him a pained, sidelong look. "I don't know what it is; I only know how to use it and what it does."

"Oh," Tony says glumly, realizing Bucky isn't teasing him; he genuinely doesn't know, has only been told enough to be useful. It's like his dad's safe, only hopefully without the booby traps. "That stinks."

Bucky's mouth twitches. "I know."

At least one of Tony's predictions comes true: there are stacks of cash stuffed inside the safe, some in very large denominations. Bucky seems far more interested in the ID and passports they find, not all of them in Howard Stark's name. "Martin Ingram?" Tony reads aloud, turning again and kneeling up to peer over Bucky's arm. Bucky and his dad both have dark hair, but that's where the resemblance ends. Bucky's taller, fairer, has blue eyes instead of brown...but maybe if someone's not paying too much attention, or if there's a noisy kid to distract them, maybe Bucky can pass for the guy in the picture.

"I can have someone alter it," Bucky explains, like he can read Tony's mind. "Or use it in trade for a custom set. Identification is always valuable. I just need to make the right connections."

"I am never going on the run with anyone else," Tony says solemnly.

Bucky gives him another of his almost-smiles before unzipping Tony's pack and stuffing a few wads of cash inside. Tony gets the feeling that Bucky's being polite, that he has ways of getting them things that don't involve money, but Tony would rather buy their way out of trouble. It's not as exciting, but there's far less chance of Bucky getting hurt.

"Is that everything?" Bucky asks as he zips Tony's pack up again. He takes a step back, giving Tony room to climb down from the shelf under his own power, something Tony appreciates a lot.

Tony thinks hard. "We could check the bedrooms," he says, shoving down a squirming sense of discomfort at the idea--not so much at violating his parents' inner sanctum, but Jarvis'. "Only if they've been gone since the 90's, that's probably a waste of time. So...I guess we're ready to go?"

Bucky nods. When they leave the study, this time Bucky's in the lead.

Tony really hopes that's just a precaution, that their luck will hold and they won't meet anyone on the way, but if they do, he's glad he's with Bucky. There's no one he'd rather have on his side, and that includes Captain America himself.

***

The mansion is quiet as they head back downstairs, but the soldier doesn't trust it. It may be abandoned, but the boy's last known address is an obvious candidate for surveillance. Losing their trackers and evading the teams sure to be sent after them does them no good if they walk into such a predictable location, but it can't be helped. If the boy's father had been in residence, the gamble might have paid off.

The red-haired woman waiting for them in the foyer isn't a surprise, but she is...familiar. Her presence alone would have been enough to set the soldier on edge, but her familiarity is ominous. The only people he recognizes through the gaps in his memory are all Hydra.

The boy freezes with a tiny gasp as the soldier stills, and that sound, the soft, scared hitch of vulnerable lungs, diverts the soldier just long enough for the woman's eyes to narrow then widen, her face blanking in shock. "Tony?"

He comes very close to believing the raw concern in her voice before memory kicks in with a vengeance.

"Widow!" he barks before realizing the boy won't understand the warning. "Out the back! Run!"

The boy justifies every ounce of the soldier's faith in his intelligence; he doesn't hesitate in the slightest. As the Widow darts to intercept, the soldier throws himself in her path, pulling a knife from a concealed sheath. They're too close already; at this range, guns will be useless.

The Widow is fast, supple as a snake, and doesn't flinch from his blows. She moves to block the first jab of his knife hand and gives the instant her arm buckles, turning with his momentum as she grabs his wrist instead. Tiny as she is, she flips him over her shoulder with ease, putting herself between him and the boy.

He doesn't let her keep that advantage. Rolling upright, he spins with a leg extended, trying to sweep her off her feet; while she's leaping clear, he uncoils his entire body behind a punch that she barely leans away from in time. Grabbing his arm again for leverage, she swings herself astride his shoulders, whipping out a length of cord she wraps around his neck and pulls taut.

The boy shrieks in fear in the very next instant.

" _Bucky_!" the boy yells, clattering footsteps retracing their path, and the soldier feels his own steady heartbeat falter painfully in his chest.

No. He won't allow this. He will _not_.

With his right hand already wrapped around the Widow's garrote, he reaches up with his left, fists his metal hand in the leather of her suit and throws her clear. She slams into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster, but the instant she hits the ground, she's on her feet again, grim-faced and determined. He powers up his arm into overdrive, ready to meet her with bone-crushing force as she rushes him again, just as the boy skids into the room.

"Bucky! There's another--"

The boy. He can't--

He can't kill someone in front of a _kid_.

Instinct turns his punch into a grab, but there's no holding a Black Widow if she doesn't want to be held. He throws her instead, hard but not as hard as he could, and she's already tucked herself up into a ball as her back meets the glass of the front window. A shrill alarm immediately begins to blare, but it's not important. Tossing his knife to his left hand, he scoops the boy up with his right arm, buries the knife in the second operative's thigh with a flick of his wrist, and bolts for the same window he sent the Widow through. She's already on her feet, but he rips a metal shutter free with his left hand and flings it at her with all his strength, forcing her to duck and roll.

The boy clings to him tightly as he takes off at a sprint, gangly arms and legs wrapped tightly around him, head tucked close to his chest. The soldier barely notices the boy's weight as he leaps to vault the boundary wall, metal hand screeching unpleasantly as it grazes one of the close-set spikes that line the top. Swinging his legs over as he twists in midair, he braces for the rain of bullets sure to follow, but the Widow holds her fire. She must be under orders to act covertly, and the soldier is already making a big enough spectacle as it is.

Pedestrians scream and scatter as he touches down on the sidewalk, but there's no time for stealth. They need to vanish, and quickly, but what they need first is distance. He can't trust that the car has remained undiscovered, so he heads deeper into the heart of the city, cutting through alleys for the first dozen or so blocks until it feels safe enough to slow down. They need to be utterly unremarkable now, at least until he can find them transportation, information, somewhere to hide. They need a computer. They need to be very, very careful.

Ducking between two dumpsters behind a quiet restaurant, the soldier crouches down, intending to set the boy on his feet. Small hands fist tightly on the soldier's jacket, but the boy turns loose an instant later, drawing in on himself, shoulders tight. He looks terrified, eyes wide and face pale, but he meets the soldier's gaze without flinching, marshalling himself with a deep, shaky breath.

"Sorry--" the boy begins, but that's--that's wrong.

"Hey," the soldier cuts him off, shaking his head minutely. "You did good." He'd tried to follow orders, and when his orders went bad, he'd done the next best thing. "Retreat and regroup: that was smart."

"Oh," the boy says, torn between shock and pleasure. Relief wins out in the end. "But...what do we do now? They found us."

"Doesn't matter if they find us," the soldier says with a shrug. "They've still got to catch us." He looks the boy over carefully, but his rabbit-quick breaths are already starting to slow, color creeping back into his cheeks. "Do you think you can keep going? We can rest very soon."

"Rest?" the boy asks. "Are we staying in the city?"

The soldier nods. "For a day, at least. They'll already know where your father is, so giving them a head start won't matter. If you can't be better-informed, be smarter or better-armed." He can't remember now who told him that, but it's always been good advice.

The boy's solemn face cracks into a grin, strained but genuine. "That sounds like something my dad would say."

The soldier shrugs. He doesn't remember.

The boy sniffs back unshed tears and blinks his eyes hard, squaring his shoulders. "Okay," he says smartly. "Let's go."

The soldier has the strangest urge to mess up the boy's hair.

So he does.

***

Steve strides through the large glass doors of the Tower, barely slowing as the receptionist calls after him. He should probably sign in, but Stark's security has already been compromised, and there's been too many delays already.

" _Good evening, Captain Rogers_ ," JARVIS greets him as he steps into the VIP elevator that will take him straight to the top of the Tower. " _Agent Romanoff and Agent Barton are waiting in the penthouse if you'd care to join them_."

"Please," Steve says, taking a deep breath as the elevator begins to rise. "Any luck on getting a solid fix on Stark's implants?"

" _I'm afraid not, Captain. Half appear to be missing or offline, and the half that remain are only traceable at short range or when fully activated_."

"Short range," Steve echoes with a frown as the doors slide open. "Has he been spotted? Last I heard, it sounded like he might be on his way here, but...."

Natasha and Clint look up from the tablet screen they're sharing as Steve exits the elevator, stepping out into the airy, open space that fronts the penthouse floor. The two are huddled together on a white leather couch, both in their working uniforms, but Clint's got a pressure bandage wrapped around one thigh, and Natasha looks like she's gone at least one round with the Hulk. "What happened?" Steve asks, footsteps faltering as he takes in the damage.

"Well, we found Stark," Natasha says with a wry twist to her mouth. "Problem is, he wasn't alone."

"He wasn't himself, either," Clint adds, shaking his head slowly. "I wouldn't have believed it myself, but Nat showed me the baby pictures--"

"Wait," Steve breaks in. "Baby pictures? Look, start from the beginning."

"Apparently Tony really was heading home," Natasha says, face a little too still as she shifts to find a more comfortable position. On anyone else, it would have been a grimace of pain. "Just not here. JARVIS sent an alert when Tony entered the old Stark mansion--"

" _On approach, if I may_ ," JARVIS cuts in smoothly. " _I have standing orders not to make my presence known if Sir arrives at any of the locations I monitor while in a compromised state and in the company of unknowns. My orders include signaling for assistance, assessing the situation, and rendering what aid I can while maintaining cover. In this case, I opened a pair of doors remotely_."

"You let them in?" Natasha asks, surprised.

" _Sir did not appear to be in any distress_."

Natasha frowns thoughtfully; Clint nudges her shoulder gently with his own. "He did run _for_ the guy," Clint says.

Steve shakes his head. "Guys? The story?"

Natasha takes a deep breath and blows it out sharply. "This is going to sound crazy, but...Tony appears to have been turned into a child version of himself. I only recognized him because of all the research I did for SHIELD, but not only does he have the implants, JARVIS managed to compile a full retinal scan, and he says it's a perfect match."

"On a--a _child version_ of Tony?" Steve would almost think they're pulling his leg, only this is no time for practical jokes.

" _The placement of the blood vessels in the human retina generally remain unchanged throughout a person's lifetime_ ," JARVIS offers helpfully. " _As Sir suffers from none of the conditions that would result in such changes, I can only conclude that it is him_."

"All right...so Stark's been turned into a kid." Steve can't help waiting for the 'gotcha' moment, but the others just stare at him expectantly. "Just...how young are we talking? And you said he wasn't alone?"

"Well, he's always been kind of a shorty," Clint says without a lick of shame, "but I'd put him at five years old. Smart as a whip, though, from what JARVIS showed us. I mean, 'no distress', hell. If you ask me, Stark's running the show."

Steve frowns. "And the guy he's with?"

"That's where it gets tricky," Natasha says, taking up the thread of the explanation. "I recognize him--by reputation, at least," she says, but there's a tiny flicker in her eyes like she's not quite sure of that. "There's not many people who could recognize a Black Widow on sight who also have a metal hand. I'm nearly positive the man Tony's with is the Winter Soldier--probably the most deadly assassin of the last century. They say he was the Red Room's greatest success," she adds with a casual half-shrug Steve's not meant to buy. The Red Room had trained Natasha too. "The thing is, he's been active since the 50's, but the man we saw was maybe in his late twenties."

"Hey, if they can de-age Stark," Clint begins with forced humor.

"There's something else," Natasha bulls onward over Clint's attempt at deflection. "Tony called him 'Bucky'."

Steve's heart knocks hard against his ribs, but he shoves the instant rush of blind, stupid hope aside in the next instant. It's just a coincidence. It has to be. "That's...an odd name for an assassin, but--"

"JARVIS?" Natasha asks gently, turning the tablet in her hands to face Steve. "Show him what you showed us."

The boy on the screen is tiny, wears too-big shoes and an Iron Man shirt of all things, but it's definitely Tony Stark--a Tony Stark who looks like his world is crumbling around him. " _What...what year did you say it was again_?" he asks the man at his side in a small, strangled voice.

The man is tall, bundled up in a jacket and hoodie despite the mild weather, his face half-obscured by the baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and the way his face is tipped down, his focus never leaving the boy. He doesn't answer at first, the corners of his mouth pulling tight, but a soft, gruff voice Steve swears he knows says, " _2014_."

Steve's fists clench as he watches Tony start to hyperventilate, too late for Steve to do anything to help. He knows what it's like for his lungs to turn against him, for every breath to become a battle. _You're okay_ , he wants to urge aloud, _relax, just--_

The man on the screen beats him to it.

" _Hey_ ," Bucky says, folding himself down to crouch at Tony's side, settling his hand at the back of Tony's neck. " _It's okay. You're okay. Just breathe with me, all right? No, don't try to force it, just listen. That's it. Nice and easy_."

Steve tries to make a lunge for the tablet, but he staggers, barely catching himself with one hand on the arm of the couch. With the other he pulls the tablet closer, hardly able to believe his eyes, but that's--that's Bucky, repeating a mantra Steve could recite in his sleep. It's Bucky, and he's alive.

"Steve," Natasha says quietly. "He doesn't seem to remember a lot. Neither of them do--they were looking for Howard Stark. I think...whatever happened to Tony, it regressed his memories along with his age. And the Winter Soldier...I couldn't begin to tell you what happened there, but for whatever reason, he does appear to be protecting Tony. If they're traveling together by choice, we may find it very difficult to get Tony back."

Steve shakes his head, unable to tear his eyes from the screen. "Getting Tony back isn't the problem," he says, distracted. Natasha tilts her head with a skeptical hum, but Steve knows what he's talking about. He knows _Bucky_. "If Bucky's looking out for him, you're not _going_ to get him back. Not without bringing them both in." Or killing Bucky first, but that's not on the table. That's not even on the same world as the table. _There is no table_.

Clint shrugs and manfully doesn't mention the wound Bucky probably gave him. "So we're going to go out, hunt down a legendary assassin, and convince him to follow us home like a stray cat." Steve clenches his jaw, but Clint just arches a brow, mouth curling into a smirk. "Well, I got nothing better to do. Nat, you in?"

"Someone has to keep you boys out of trouble," she says, pointedly ignoring Clint's grin as she cages a tiny smile.

Part of Steve just wants to watch the rest of the recording about a dozen more times, but the real Bucky is out there somewhere, waiting for them. "All right," he says, letting hope rise up at last. "Let's bring them home."

***


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the huge delay; a combination of killer insomnia, depression, and writer's block brought on by looking at too many dead fandoms brewed up a perfect storm. D:

Rumlow's used to being judged by the size of his arms, not the size of his brain, but you don't get very far in Hydra _or_ in SHIELD by being a moron. It doesn't take long to get the information he needs to track Stark down.

"So he's not going to remember anything." It's not that he didn't hear the doc the first time; it just doesn't seem plausible.

"Nothing past what he'd know if he really were his physical age," Mannheim says with carefully-curbed impatience. Pierce isn't happy with any of them right now, but Rumlow at least is being given the opportunity to fix his screw-up. Mannheim and Johnston are on much thinner ice. "Memory regression appears to be a side effect of the age regression."

"How does that even work?"

Mannheim grimaces. "That's...one of the things we're studying."

Wait. "Studying? You don't even _know_?"

He's not sure why he's surprised. The entire science department is full of lunatics.

Poorly-understood drugs aside, he's pretty clear on what he's actually got to work with, which is one Tony Stark, aged anywhere from four to six--Rumlow's not that great with kids--who's not going to remember the Avengers or being Iron Man or any of that. He's going to remember being at home with mommy and having his butler wipe his nose, and the old Stark mansion is right where it ever was, sitting empty on a ridiculous chunk of prime Manhattan real estate just because Stark's got the money to do it. And where's the first place any kid makes a beeline for when he's lost? Home.

He assembles his team and commandeers a Quinjet while he's on the horn to the boys in New York, Rollins taking care of most of the details while Rumlow gives extremely specific instructions to the surveillance detail. Stark's AI is everywhere, gets into everything. If the computer notices their presence, it might start asking questions, might even go looking for answers on its own.

He rubs at the back of his neck and pretends a shiver didn't just crawl down his spine. Zola is creepy enough, but at least Zola had been human once. Rumlow seriously hopes they nuke the Stark servers from orbit once Project Insight is go; it's the only way to be sure.

"What's Rogers' position?" he asks once they're in the air.

"Right behind us," Rollins says, fingers pressed tight to the earpiece of his headset. He's been receiving steady updates since they first went on alert; ever since Rogers' own defrosting, it's been a top priority to make sure the asset and the Captain are never in the same place at the same time. "He'll reach New York about the same time we will."

Rumlow feels like cursing but settles for a nod. If they hadn't had to go through the motions of a systematic search to appease Fury, they could have been there by now, ready and waiting.

He glances around the Quinjet's passenger bay, but the team's quiet, the usual pre-mission ragging glaringly absent. Bad enough Stark saw Rumlow, can make him now if the de-aging drug doesn't fuck with his head worse than it already has. The little shit has the asset, too, and how he managed that, Rumlow still doesn't know, even after viewing the security footage.

The asset complicates things. Even with the science department making Swiss cheese out of his brain on a regular basis, the Soldier knows too much. Let Stark lead him back to the Avengers, let Rogers get one clear look at him, and all hell's going to break loose.

There's a small fleet of SUVs waiting for them when they land, but they haven't even loaded up their gear when his phone rings. " _The asset and the target have just entered the mansion grounds_ ," he's told, which is proof positive that the universe hates him and does not want him to be happy. It's rush hour and this is New York. How the hell did they get there this fast?

"We're on our way," is all he can say. "Do _not_ lose them."

Sutter takes the wheel. He's got a knack for dodging traffic, drives like he's got a death wish even when he's just making a beer run, and Rumlow starts thinking _maybe_. Maybe they can do this nice and easy after all.

"Fuck," he breathes explosively when his phone rings again, too soon, because there's no fucking way that's going to be good news.

" _Widow and Hawkeye just arrived on the scene_ ," Langston reports.

Sutter doesn't even flinch when Rumlow slams the side of his fist against the door.

"Stay on the line," Rumlow grits through clenched teeth. "I want up to the _second_ intel on this."

He's halfway to wondering if they can all just agree that Tahiti is nice this time of year--except not, because there's nowhere on earth Pierce won't find them--when Langston breathes a quiet curse into the phone.

" _Widow just came through the window_ ," Langston reports, " _forcibly. She's up, but--the Soldier just came after her. He's got the target with him_ ," he adds, dashing Rumlow's hopes that the two assassins will do him a favor and kill each other. " _He just ripped a shutter off--shit. He's running. With the target._ "

There's a surprise, Rumlow nearly grumbles, but it is surprising in its own way. Given a mission, pointed at an obstacle, the Soldier doesn't tend to fuck around. He retreats after, not during. Choosing _not_ to engage is completely out of character, and Rumlow can't begin to decipher what that means.

"Go after him," he orders. It's not like they'll go back to the mansion after this; there's no need to continue their surveillance of the place. "And be ready to scramble. The minute we get a match on facial recognition, I want every available agent ready to move."

He misses flip phones. Tapping a screen isn't nearly as satisfying as ending a call with a snap.

He's not expecting Langston's team to catch up to the Soldier. The asset's as good as gone, but they can work with this. So long as the Soldier isn't running straight into the lap of the Avengers, this can still be salvaged.

They all wince in unison as his phone rings again.

"Mother _fuck_ ," Rumlow groans, because seriously, can he not catch a break here? Not one?

It's not Langston on the other end. It's Pierce.

" _You lost him_ ," Pierce says, proving what a shitty idea Tahiti would have been.

"Only for now, sir," Rumlow insists. He really hopes the Soldier thinks this little stunt is worth it, because Rumlow's going to feed him his goddamn balls for this, right before he punches the Soldier's clock for good. "We have a team starting up a facial recognition search. If we pass the kill order to SHIELD before Rogers gets a good look--"

" _Who said anything about a kill order_?" Pierce asks sharply.

Rumlow sucks in a deep breath, mind blanking. Pierce wants them to bring in a Winter Soldier gone rogue alive? "Sir. I thought...with Project Insight nearly complete--"

" _Project Insight is a glorified lawn mower_ ," Pierce snaps. " _It was never going to get all the weeds. Or did you think people were just going to line up and let us shoot them after the first million_?"

Shit. When he puts it like that, it makes sense. Give the world a flashy, scary target to throw all its strength against, and maybe it won't spot the true threat until it's too late. And for the real troublemakers, the ones too canny to stick their necks out in the first place, for those they have the Winter Soldier--once they _have_ the Winter Soldier.

" _You know the asset's triggers_ ," Pierce reminds him. " _Use them_."

Right. Because it's just that easy to walk up to a fuck-off crazy assassin who's already so erratic they have to freeze him to keep him useful. Thing is, Rumlow's not dumb. He knows damn well they _did_ choose him for the size of his arms, at least in this: they tapped him as the Soldier's handler because he's got half a chance of actually getting close enough to do his job.

"Understood," he says, clenching his jaw. Pierce hangs up without another word.

Glancing wryly at his phone, he considers chucking it out the window for a blissful three seconds. "The next time this fucker rings," he says instead, "it had better be good news."

It is.

***

Steve's trying to be patient, trying not to piss anyone off with his hovering, but he's pretty sure if he walks behind Natasha one more time, she's going to peg something heavy at his head. He's never been any good at waiting. He doesn't know how he's supposed to just sit on his hands while Bucky's out there, alive but definitely confused, or...why would Bucky have been looking for Howard and not _Steve_? Has someone managed to keep it from Bucky that Steve survived too?

It's not adding up. Not just that Bucky's alive; Natasha said the Red Room had trained him, but how did they get their hooks in him in the first place? And seriously--Bucky? An assassin? He'd been the best sniper Steve had ever met, but there's a world of difference between picking off an enemy in the middle of a war and killing someone in cold blood. The Bucky Steve knows doesn't like hurting anyone, would have looked for Steve first. Would have brought Tony _to_ him, even if he thinks Steve's going to turn him in. That Bucky hasn't, that he's wasting time looking for a dead man....

_What year did you say it was again?_

He remembers the pained set of Bucky's mouth, that half beat of hesitation.

What the hell have they been doing to his best friend?

Clint shoots him an amused look as he makes another circuit of the open penthouse floor but doesn't say a word. Steve thinks he should maybe feel guilty for how eager he is to get moving--Clint's going to be limping for a while, should probably sit this one out entirely--but kicked back on the couch with his bum leg propped up, idly channel surfing while Natasha combs secret databases for clues, Clint doesn't look like a man who's holding a grudge.

On the other end of the couch, Natasha frowns.

"Did you find something?" Steve asks a hair too quick.

Natasha's eyes flick rapidly over her tablet screen as her scowl deepens. "Not exactly," she says, scrolling down. "I'm just wondering why we've been scheduled in advance for a--"

" _Excuse me, Agent Romanoff, Captain Rogers_ ," JARVIS breaks in politely, " _but I believe we may have a situation_."

"A situation?" Steve echoes, nervous energy singing through him. "Did you find them?"

" _Indeed_ ," JARVIS replies, his voice troubled. " _But it appears I'm not the only one._ "

***

The mall Bucky takes Tony to is big and bright, packed with shoppers. It's hard to tell whether Bucky's worried about being spotted or not, except the first place Bucky stops is a tiny kiosk by the escalators that sells nothing but baseball caps. When Bucky looks at him expectantly, Tony picks one with a stylized 'A' he thinks he remembers seeing on a building nearby. With any luck, it'll make him look like he belongs here.

The salesman grins as he hands it over, but it's the grin adults get when Tony's somehow managed to _act his age_. He resists rolling his eyes, barely.

"That's one of my biggest sellers," the vendor tells Bucky, not even blinking as Bucky pulls out a wad of cash and flips a twenty up with his thumb, his left hand never leaving his jacket pocket. The vendor barely glances at that arm, jerking his eyes back to Bucky's like he thinks staring would be rude. He takes the twenty and offers a penny back, tossing it into a plastic dish when Bucky shakes his head. "Lot of Avengers fans in New York, y'know?"

Tony tries not to stare. Twenty dollars? For a _baseball cap_? And who are the Avengers? Do they have a new sports team?

"I'll bet," Bucky says in an accent that's pure Brooklyn, one corner of his mouth quirking up as he tucks the folded bills away. He has a nice smile, one that pulls the salesman's grin wider, but Tony can see what's missing from Bucky's eyes. Bucky's mind is elsewhere, like his body's going through the motions without any input from his head. "Thanks," he adds, and when he turns away, right hand settling at the back of Tony's pack, there's no change in his expression as he scans the crowds around them, marking the cameras one by one.

Bucky's smile smooths away as he glances down at Tony, but his eyes warm, and that's even better. "Go on," he says, nodding at the hat. "Put it on."

"But we're indoors," Tony protests under his breath, shoulders hunching as if his mom's going to magically appear out of nowhere the instant he tries it on. He doesn't look at Bucky's own hat, feeling a sudden kinship with the guy at the kiosk.

"I know," Bucky says, like he really does know, like he _agrees_ with Tony, even. "Just trust me."

Tony sighs but does what Bucky asks. He doesn't duck away when Bucky's hand settles briefly on his now-covered head then pulls the brim of his cap down low to match Bucky's own. Right. They're in disguise. He should have thought of that.

Tony's not sure what to make of half of what he sees as they dive back into the crowd. There's a home theater in the mansion, but he glimpses row upon row of shelves in a store that claims to have all the blockbuster hits, and the sleek, slim cases look nothing like what he's used to. He doesn't spot a single record in the music store, and the weirdly electronic voice warbling through the speakers over a repetitive beat makes him wrinkle his nose. Not that he has anything against singing robots, but if he were going to build a robot that could sing, he'd at least give it a better voice than that.

Bucky has to physically steer him past an electronics boutique as he stares, awestruck, at the glorious collection of bits and tools and gadgets inside. It's possible he whimpers a little.

"Later," Bucky promises, and it _is_ a promise; Tony's sure of it. If Bucky says he'll do something, explain something, he means it.

"Did you see--" he can't resist bubbling, bouncing a little on his toes.

"Uh-huh."

Tony eyes him sidelong, and while Bucky's stoic look hasn't cracked, it's a little _too_ perfect to be real.

"Hmph," Tony grumbles, hiding a grin of his own. Jarvis gives him-- _gave_ him--the exact same look.

The reminder sobers him, drags his attention back to the fact that they're on their own, at least for now. When Bucky shoots him a questioning look, Tony shakes his head. "I miss Jarvis," he admits. He's told Bucky a little about the man, but it's not like they would ever have met, and he doesn't want to bore Bucky with stories about people he doesn't know. His parents do that to him all the time, and if he hates it, Bucky probably will too.

Bucky nods. He doesn't tell Tony they'll find Jarvis, not to worry. It's a little scary, Bucky's particular brand of honesty, but Tony will take it. It's miles better than being lied to all the time.

Two steps into the computer store, and Tony's mind is officially blown. "Whoa," he breathes, stumbling along at Bucky's side in a daze. It's like walking onto the set of a science fiction movie, everything new and bright and _tiny_. He stares at weirdly-shaped computers with _running lights_ , monitor screens flat as picture frames, and instead of blocky green or amber pixels on a field of black, the displays look like photographs.

Bucky doesn't really look around, spotting what he wants right off the bat and heading straight for it. Tony's not even sure what he's looking at at first, because it's just another of those thin monitors attached directly to a keyboard; the whole thing looks like it could be folded in half. The sign below it is advertising laptops for six hundred dollars, listing off specs for RAM and processing speeds and...wait. "Is that a _computer_?" Tony squeaks, thinking he has to be missing something. Where's the rest of it?

"They make things smaller these days," Bucky explains, hunching his right shoulder. "Sometimes bigger."

Tony makes a wordless sound that's half disbelief and half despair, all frustration. He's in the _future_ , but he doesn't have time to stop and look at any of it. It's not fair.

They buy a laptop and what looks like a messenger bag but turns out to be a case for the computer. After they leave the mall, they duck down another alley, where Bucky takes everything out of the box and stuffs it in the satchel he slings over his shoulder. Just like that, they blend in again, maybe better than before. Most of the people on the street look like they're coming from work or school, and now they do too.

Tony's not sure what the game plan is, whether Bucky's going to get them another car or find somewhere safe to hole up, like an abandoned building or a seedy bar where nobody asks questions or--maybe he's been watching too many movies after all. Bucky ignores two really nice hotels without even a glance, so Tony figures that idea is out of the running, but then Bucky makes a beeline for the next one he sees, politely holding the door for a large tour group on their way out.

"How are you at distractions?" Bucky asks quietly as he nods at a silver-haired couple hobbling out at the tail end of the party.

Tony grins so wide his face hurts, excitement bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He's _tried_ to do this for his dad before; mostly it ends with him getting yelled at. But Bucky had _asked_. "Distractions are my specialty. What kind do you need?"

The desk clerk shoots Bucky a dismayed look he quickly hides when the two of them step into the foyer. Tony's bouncing on his feet, talking so fast even he barely has a clue what he's saying; it's mostly 'Dad' and 'can we' and 'when'. He expects Bucky to snap at any second, for his anger to intimidate the clerk without making it obvious that's what they're doing, but Bucky just trudges wearily up to the front desk, trying gamely to get a word in edgewise.

"Uh, we need a room," Bucky greets the clerk without really lifting his voice, letting Tony talk right over him. "Double beds, one--"

"Dad!"

"One night. Hang on a sec, kiddo," Bucky adds, rooting one-handed through the front pocket of the laptop case. "Just let me--"

"Can we get room service here? Do you have room service here?" Tony asks, eyes wide and guileless as he flicks them between Bucky and the clerk.

The clerk looks surprised to be dragged into the conversation, but Bucky answers without looking up. "I think your mom's--"

"Because I'm going to miss my show!"

Bucky abandons his search through the front pocket and unzips the top. "I'm sure there's plenty of--"

"When's mom getting back?"

"She, uh...she's just taking a little break," Bucky mumbles, shooting a helpless look at the clerk. The clerk's face does a funny twist, like he wants to commiserate but also wants to judge Bucky _so hard_ on his parenting skills. Tony sort of wants to kick him. "Maybe an hour or so?"

"Is she bringing us dinner?"

"Uh...sure. Probably. Hey, did you see what I did with my wallet, champ?"

"Mom's got it," Tony offers immediately.

"Ffff--uh. Great," Bucky sighs, reaching into his jacket pocket instead. "Look, can I just give you cash?" Bucky asks the clerk, shoulders slumped, face hangdog. "I got my passport...."

Another couple with kids has lined up behind them, and the clerk glances past them with a harried look, gnawing on his lower lip. "Er--"

"Dad," Tony starts up again, a little too loud and a little too urgent. "Dad, my show--"

"Yeah, that's fine," the clerk says, reaching out in a hurry to take the passport Bucky hands over in lieu of regular ID. He barely glances at it when Tony makes a show of pulling on the satchel strap to get Bucky's attention and Bucky makes a panicked, right-handed grab like he's about to lose it off his shoulder. "There's a television in the room."

"Thanks," Bucky says with an embarrassed smile. "Uh, do you have internet?"

"Wi-fi password's on the card by the phone."

They get a room on the second floor, taking the elevator though they aren't carrying any luggage. The clerk's too happy to see the back of them to question it. Tony yammers on about nothing until the doors slide shut between them and the lobby, and then he shuts his mouth with a snap. He knows he did a good job back there, but he can't help shooting a sidelong glance at Bucky's face, because he also knows he's been _just_ as irritating as he meant to be. He's a little spooked to find Bucky already looking at him, but instead of banked frustration, there's a light in Bucky's eyes and the ghost of a curve around his mouth like he desperately wants to laugh but can't quite let himself.

"Was that okay?" Tony asks, ninety-nine percent certain he knows the answer, but--

"That was perfect," Bucky says. If he thinks Tony's fishing for compliments, it doesn't dim the approval in his eyes.

Tony could...Tony could _really_ get used to that. If he's lucky.

Their room faces the street, and the first thing Bucky does is check the windows, standing carefully to the side of the open blinds and peering down at the street and up at the tops of the surrounding buildings. Whatever he sees or doesn't see seems to reassure him for the moment. Unslinging the computer from his shoulder, he goes prowling for an electrical outlet, peering into every corner of the room as he does. Tony hangs back and watches, not wanting to get in the way, but he's curious all the same.

"What are you looking for? Do you think the place is bugged? They couldn't have known we'd come here, could they?"

"Surveillance isn't always about us," Bucky says with a shrug. "Doesn't matter who the trap's set for if you get stuck in it."

"Oh," Tony breathes, brows shooting up. He is so, so lucky he's not doing this alone. "Oh, yeah. Of course."

The most convenient outlet is between the room's double beds, and Bucky takes a seat on the one closest to the window, curling one leg under him and planting the other foot on the floor. He settles the computer in his lap as he plugs it in and turns it on. When Tony edges up to hover at his side, Bucky jerks his head to the right in clear invitation.

Shedding his backpack at the end of the bed, Tony scrambles up to find a place in the middle at Bucky's side. He sits back on his heels, trying not to crowd Bucky or jostle his arm as he watches Bucky go through some kind of startup routine. For some reason Bucky types in 'tony' when it asks for a user name, and Tony has to bite his lip to keep from asking why he doesn't use his own.

"Password?" Bucky asks.

"Platypus?" It's the first word that popped into his head, so hopefully that'll make it harder for someone else to guess.

Bucky's a fast typist, as fast as one of his dad's secretaries, and he navigates the screens that pop up with ease. Tony watches avidly as a little white arrow mimics the motions of Bucky's index finger on a dark pad under the keyboard, new programs opening as Bucky taps twice on different pictures. "What...?"

"Program icons," Bucky explains, swirling his finger on the pad to make the arrow dance around the pictures he'd tapped to bring up the other screens. "You activate these to bring up a new program in a new window--the boxes here," he adds, making bigger circles with the arrow this time. "We need to connect to the hotel's wi-fi--a wireless communications network--to get access to the internet. They're usually password protected; if they're not, they're not secure."

"Do you think they're using the same password in all the rooms?" Tony asks, catching himself just as he starts to lean into Bucky's shoulder for a better view.

"Yes. We're not looking for anything secret, though," Bucky says, fishing a laminated card off the bedside table that lists checkout times, the number for the front desk, and a string of random numbers and letters that makes Tony's own password look amateurish. "Even if someone sees our activity, it's not going to tell them much unless they know who we are."

Tony nods, staring wide-eyed as Bucky changes windows, tells the program he doesn't want a tour, and starts typing into a tiny box at the top.

"Google?" Tony asks. What do really big numbers have to do with his dad? Other than the obvious, of course.

"Search engine. It compiles and indexes information so you can find it more quickly."

"When did you learn all this?" Tony asks helplessly. Bucky's older than he is, but he's from an era long before there were computers at all. Seeing him navigate the future's technology with ease leaves Tony feeling even more lost in time than he already does.

Bucky's fingers still on the keyboard, his eyes staring through the screen without seeing it. "I don't remember," he rasps softly. "I remember them teaching me, but I don't remember the mission."

"Is that...normal?" Tony winces. Of course it's not normal. Nothing about this entire situation is normal, but Bucky starts to nod, stops, and rolls one shoulder in half a shrug, like he's not certain himself.

"Sometimes," he says, ducking his head like he's forgotten he's wearing a cap and wants to hide behind his hair. It doesn't work, so Tony makes a big show of not looking at him, gingerly leaning against Bucky's arm for moral support. Bucky doesn't pull away or nudge him to sit up properly, so it must be okay; Tony slumps a little in relief.

Bucky stares at the screen a moment longer, then shakes his head minutely. "Let's find your father," he says.

He types in 'Howard Stark'. Seconds later, Tony's jaw drops.

"That's...how many results?" he squeaks, leaning in closer. Sure his dad is famous, but...nine _million_?

 _Howard Stark,_ the top line reads, _Man of the Future. Howard Stark - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. 8 Things You Didn't Know About Howard Stark. The Man Behind the Plan - The New Yorker._ There's more, obviously, but Bucky doesn't move the page down. He's too busy staring at a collection of mini-photographs at the top right of the screen.

It's his dad, but they're all in black and white, old photos from the war--from the time when Bucky would have known him, Tony realizes with a start. Bucky's eyes have gone huge; his lips are parted, but he doesn't seem to be breathing at all. "Bucky?" Tony asks, but Bucky doesn't even twitch. "Bucky? Are you okay?" He doesn't look like he is, but Tony can't tell if that too-blank expression is one of horror or desperate need. "Bucky?"

Bucky's throat clicks as he swallows, eyes still fixed on the screen. "There was a man," he says, voice mostly breath. "I knew him."

"My dad?"

Bucky hesitates then shakes his head. "We were going to the future."

The future? Maybe he means his dad's display at the World's Fair? If so, then that was while they were all still Stateside, back before the war, and that means he's probably remembering Captain Rogers. Tony bites his lip. Does Bucky even know the captain is...?

"Well," Tony says, trying to lighten the mood, "at least you made it...?"

Bucky turns to him then, eyes lost, and that's...no. No way. There's no way he can tell Bucky his friend is--missing, he'll go with missing, because his dad's rarely wrong about anything, and he can't be wrong about this. But he wonders for one horrible moment whether he _should_ tell, because if Bucky had been waiting for a second rescue, then maybe he's been waiting for an explanation as well.

If he even remembers. If he _ever_ remembers. But until then--

Tony's eyes slide away, but something on the screen catches his eye. There's a tiny biography under his dad's photographs, along with 'Born: August 15, 1917'.

Under that it says 'Died: December 16, 1991'.

_Died._

"W-what...?" he breathes almost soundlessly. Bucky tenses beside him, and he can almost feel the man's gaze snapping back into focus, settling on him and not the screen, but he can't tear his own eyes away. That...that can't be right. His dad can't be...that's not _right_.

Bucky's head jerks back around, and it takes him no time at all to discover what Tony has. Moving his little arrow over to one of the blue lines of text, he taps the laptop's touchpad and another page takes the first one's place. It's the free encyclopedia entry, and it lists the dates again, right there in black and white: Howard Stark, 15 August 1917 - 16 December 1991.

His dad. His dad is.

"Mom?" he chokes out, swallowing hard.

There may have been a reason why they didn't find anything later than 1991 at the mansion.

It's the same. The same date. Bucky clicks another line of text that takes them straight to--

_Death_

\--straight to how it happened, and Tony reads 'car crash' and can't look at the rest. Clapping both hands over his mouth, he curls in on himself, eyes stinging hot. This can't be happening. He can't have missed--God, so many years, and now he's never going to get to see them again. He's never going to know if his mom forgave him for disappearing, if his dad missed him after all.

Bucky's hand settles warm and solid at his back, and that's where Tony's resolve crumbles. He turns and buries his face in Bucky's shoulder as Bucky's arm jerks, freezes, and only hesitantly wraps around him. Tony doesn't care. He's not getting pushed away, and as his hitched breaths dissolve into muffled sobs, it wakes some rusty instinct that has Bucky pulling him closer, left hand gingerly settling at the back of Tony's neck as the right cups the ball of his shoulder. Tony can't explain it, but the loose clasp of metal cradling his skull is comforting beyond words.

He knows he's being a crybaby, but the nasty little voice inside his head that usually takes great delight in telling him so is utterly silent, like nothing anywhere can get to him with Bucky standing guard.

***

The soldier had suspected this possibility when he first saw the empty mansion, but he'd hoped for a better outcome. The boy is too young-- _reload, reload_ \--to be without his-- _fire_ \--parents.

The soldier frowns. The boy is not meant for killing, and he's never trained a technician before, but clearly he's responsible for the boy. He has no idea what to _do_ with the boy, but there must be parameters. Somewhere. If he...if he had...not a trainee. Not a handler. A...partner. What would be expected of him then?

 _Protect_.

The soldier drops his head, chewing at the inside of his lower lip as his eyes slide away from the slight figure clinging to his side. Protect. That...feels right, but it makes no sense. He's been required to give aid and assistance to a team in the past, but they would never have been given priority over a mission. Only...the boy had invoked codes burned into him at a level he can't even comprehend. If there were older triggers, there may have been older training. If buried conditioning is surfacing, he shouldn't fight it; it's authorized at the highest level. And he knows...he knows a thing or two about levels of authorization. He learned them the hard way.

So. What does his deepest training think he should do with a partner?

_Cover. Support. Protect. And keep the punk from running headlong into danger._

He suspects the last will be the most difficult and that it always has been.

With the conflict between instinct and experience resolved for the moment, he lets himself look down at the dark head tucked into his shoulder, the face half-hidden behind hands clenched bloodless. Thin shoulders shake, but the boy is remarkably skilled at remaining quiet. The soldier can't explain why instead of a warm rush of approval it makes his chest hurt instead.

He shifts, disquieted, only to have the boy dig his head harder into his chest. It's as if the boy wants to stay close, and that may be the strangest thing yet, as strange as seeing his metal hand curled around a fragile skull with no intent to harm. With _permission_ , if the way the boy had sagged against him in relief is any indication. He is...reliable, to a point, but no one he knows would think him trustworthy.

But the boy...the boy knows him as someone else, doesn't he?

As the boy slowly relaxes, silent sobs tapering to nothing, the soldier stares at the laptop balanced on his legs and considers. One more search before he lets them sleep. Just one. James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038. He's half afraid of what he'll find, but he needs to know.

He's just on the verge of testing whether the boy is willing to be untangled from him when he hears a sound that doesn't belong. There, on the other side of the door: a number of booted feet trying to move silently, the stealthy slide of a rifle bolt as it's readied to be fired.

The soldier lunges up, spilling the laptop onto the floor and grabbing the boy, grabbing the boy's backpack too. The boy squeaks in fright but doesn't struggle: he latches on tighter, tucks his head down close and makes himself small even before someone blows a hole through the door at their backs. They're only two floors up, so the soldier doesn't bother to look first; he crashes through the window, leading with his left shoulder, and hits the sidewalk running. A man in the same uniform as Rumlow barks a curse as the soldier bowls him over, and from the corners of his eyes, the soldier sees guns coming up to either side. Traffic ahead is an uncertain crawl, too slow to be any real cover but moving too quickly to duck between the cars.

His tac suit will stop a bullet, but he won't like it. He never likes it.

What he _likes_ has no bearing on getting them clear.

He launches himself into traffic, bounding up onto the trunk of one car and leaping onto the hood of the next as the first driver slams on his brakes in a panic. He braces himself at the crack of a shot, absorbs the punch that hits his shoulder--his _left_ \--and feels a sudden, chilling certainty that he won't need to worry about headshots. They want him alive, at least for now.

He's not going back there. _Neither_ of them are going back there. Not again.

Traffic snarls the instant the shooting starts, drivers trying to swerve out of the way of gunfire and gunmen alike. It makes for tricky footing, but the soldier barely lights anywhere for longer than it takes to jump again, and they reach the far side of the street in seconds. "Oh my God," the boy whimpers into his chest, on the verge of hyperventilating. "Who _are_ these people?"

The soldier frowns. Doesn't he know? "Hydra."

" _Hydra_?" the boy echoes, voice climbing an octave. "You were captured by _Hydra_?"

Was he captured? He doesn't remember. He was _given_ to Hydra by his former masters--or bought or stolen from them; that's never been clear. His new handlers have the proper authorizations. He's never questioned beyond that.

"Later," he says, needing his breath for running, certain the roar of motorcycle engines behind them is an ominous thing.

He doesn't know this area half as well as he would like, but there's been no time for reconnaissance. He makes do, pushing himself for more speed, tearing around corners and through traffic and businesses with no regard for anyone in his way. Shouts and curses follow him along with the squealing of tires and brakes, but he doesn't stop, doesn't look back. He can't make a stand without putting the boy at risk, and he won't do that until he has no other choice.

It's not the best option, but when he spots a parking garage a few blocks ahead, he pours everything he has into running. The people who see him coming leap out of his way; those who don't look back at the commotion and dodge if they're able. A few are knocked flying, clipped by his left shoulder as he twists to keep the boy safe. Luck is with them at the first intersection, and they sprint through the crosswalk with the light in their favor.

Bike engines rev at his back, voices he vaguely recognizes shouting at pedestrians and other motorists as the light ahead changes. As he nears the next intersection, he has no time to slow to make his way over traffic; the only sure path is through.

"Hold on," he says, eyes scanning the street ahead as traffic starts to move, cars picking up speed as they race to make the next light. There's a tiny window in three, two, if he pushes it, _now_.

Small hands fist in his sweatshirt and on the back of his jacket as horns blare, the screaming of tires followed by the boom and clatter of cars colliding. A big delivery truck locks up when the driver tromps on the brakes, skidding forward a dozen feet to plow into the back of an SUV. It misses them by inches when it's shoved forward by the impact, but the boy doesn't see, his face turned into the soldier's chest, his breath gone rabbit-quick.

An attendant yells as he ducks into the garage and vaults the security arm meant to keep motorists from leaving without paying. They don't have much time. He can find them a car, but if they tear out of here to avoid being searched, they'll just be hunted down again. He could hijack another driver, but that has the potential to end badly if the mark can't present a convincing front. None of his options are good ones, but the boy is small. The soldier can slip him into a vehicle if he times it just right, get him out and meet up with him again later.

He sprints up to the third floor before putting his back to a concrete support beam and setting the boy down. "Here," he says, handing the boy the backpack he snagged earlier. The guns he's already carrying will be sufficient. "Put this on."

"Wh-what's the plan?" the boy asks, hands trembling as he stuffs his arms through the straps of the pack.

"You know the Chrysler Building?" It's a big landmark, impossible to mistake for anywhere else. The boy nods. "If we get split up, I want you to make your way there as carefully as you can. I'll look for you on the way."

"But--Bucky--"

"If someone comes up to get their car--if you see the lights flash or hear an alarm chirp--you're going to get in the backseat and keep as quiet as you can. Let them drive you out of here, wait through ten stoplights, then jump out. You got that?" the soldier asks, watching the boy's face as it slowly pales. He hates asking this, but he can't leave the boy in the line of fire.

"Yes, but--"

" _Asset! Report_!"

The soldier's head jerks up. _Fuck_. They're out of time.

The boy startles violently, edging a half-step closer as his eyes flick to the elevator. "It's Rumlow," he breathes, barely making a sound.

The soldier nods faintly. He knows his handler's voice. He knows his handler's _tone_ , and Rumlow is...definitely not happy.

"Stay low," the soldier murmurs. "When I give the word, run like hell." The boy's eyes are huge, face screwed up in horror and unwillingness, but the soldier can't let him argue. "Ready?"

The boy shakes his head, eyes pleading.

" _I know you can hear me, Soldier_!"

The soldier draws breath to give the order--and a zippering sound from just beyond the concrete walls stops him. Through the wide-open window gaps he spots several lengths of cord that jerk and sway as a team rappels down from the roof. They're about to be hemmed in, and if he sends the boy away now, he'll be caught in moments.

"Bucky?" The boy has seen them too.

He takes a deep breath. "Change of plan," he says without heat. "No way out but through."

The boy's smart enough to be terrified, but he still looks relieved.

" _Don't make me tell you again! Report_!"

He leaves his guns holstered as he pivots away from the support beam, approaching his handler with a measured stride. It's possible Rumlow takes this as a sign that his newer conditioning has held, but guns are messy. The boy doesn't need to see that.

Rumlow's grin is an unpleasant promise, and it doesn't change when his eyes flick down to the boy keeping pace at the soldier's side. The soldier maintains his indifferent expression with difficulty. If Rumlow thinks he'll be taking the boy _now_ \--

The parking garage echoes with huffs and grunts of effort as the men at their back swing through the openings in the walls, booted feet touching down with varying degrees of lightness and scrambling instantly to take cover. The soldier counts six; there's sure to be more waiting on the other levels, stationed on the roof and guarding the exits.

"Hope you had a nice vacation, Soldier," Rumlow sneers, glancing swiftly past the soldier to check his men's positions. "But now it's time to get back to work. Are you ready to comply?"

A muscle in the soldier's cheek twitches. He knows the answer to that. He _should_ know the answer to that. But the words won't come.

He doesn't hurry, doesn't slow. Doesn't speak. Rumlow's eyes narrow.

"Asset," Rumlow warns.

They're twenty feet away. Fifteen. Twelve.

Rumlow's eyes jerk past the soldier. Four guns come up; two men start running.

Whipping around, the soldier draws the SIG from his back holster with his right hand and pulls the boy to him with his left, shielding the back of the boy's head with his palm. The two sprinters aren't meant for him; they're crouched too low, their eyes cutting to him nervously but fixed on the boy. The gunmen: _those_ are for him.

The boy jerks helplessly each time the soldier pulls the trigger, the noise deafening at close range, but the screams as four men drop make the boy cringe. Furious as he is, the soldier aimed to _hurt_ , not to kill, but it's clear he didn't think that through where the boy is concerned.

The two runners are still on their feet, but only for moments. Pulling the boy behind him, the soldier meets the first with a spinning kick that sends him flying until he slams into the side of a truck, window glass shattering at the agent's back as he hits, falls, and lies still. The second pulls a knife the soldier blocks with ease, catching him by the wrist and pivoting to drag his arm up behind his back until his shoulder gives with an ugly pop. The soldier doesn't let go, wrenching up until the man's bent half-over; a metal elbow to the back of his head drops him like a stone.

From the floors below, the sound of slamming doors and squealing brakes echo up to them as the soldier turns, grabs the boy and shoves him behind him, leveling his gun on Rumlow. Rumlow stands empty-handed, lip curled. The commotion below is almost certainly reinforcements on their way, but Rumlow's too calm, too sure of himself, considering how far away his allies are. The soldier knows he should shoot, but the boy is right there, peering out from behind him and trembling under the soldier's hand.

"Huh," Rumlow snorts. "Parenthood _does_ make you soft. Guess the Red Room had the right idea with their girls."

Their...? ( _Reload._ ) _His_ girls. He remembers this much. Long hours on the practice mats, at the shooting range. The hated doctor. Nothing he can do. ( _Fire_.)

He drops his aim from between Rumlow's eyes to his chest, close enough to his heart to put him out of commission for a good, long while, but it'll be neat enough, firing through that much meat.

Before he can squeeze off the shot, Rumlow barks a word that freezes him in his tracks.

 _Longing_ , his mind translates the Russian helpfully as every muscle locks tight with horror. That...that shouldn't be working, but he can _feel_ things shutting down inside his head and a cool, focused rage rising up to fill the gaps. But he--there's a prior--

"Bucky?"

 _Barnes. James Buchanan._ The prior authorization. The _first_ authorization. Delivered by the boy who gave him his--

 _Rusted_ tears through him, felt but unheard over the white noise in his head, but he can't--he already has a mission, one from higher up the chain of command. He'd been wrong once, followed his handler's orders because he is always to follow his handler's orders, but the handler had had his own agenda. The controller had not been happy.

( _"Whose orders do you take?" the controller demands, hauling the soldier's head up by his hair. The soldier's knees ache against the concrete of the cell floor, but it's one minor discomfort among many._

_"Yours," the soldier slurs through a busted jaw._

_"And who else's?"_

_"My handler's."_

_Pierce's eyes narrow. "And if mine contradict his?"_ )

Rumlow is grinning, eyes hot and bright.

Forgetting the gun entirely, the soldier punches him square in the face, feeling an icy lick of satisfaction as Rumlow goes staggering back.

"Fuck!" Rumlow barks, shaking his head like a prizefighter. 

_That's not what comes next_ , the soldier wants to say, the urge mocking and sharp.

Rumlow straightens with a snarl, hands coming up curled into fists, and it's anyone's guess whether he means to throw a punch or the next word in the sequence.

Before he can decide, a man on a motorcycle comes tearing up the ramp ahead of a group of uniformed agents on foot. Backup's here, but the man on the bike shouts, "Stand down! Everybody stand down!"

The soldier listens to very few orders that don't come from his handler or the controller, but there's something in him that wants to listen to this one.

Rumlow hesitates as the bike skids to a stop, his face paling as his eyes cut between the man and the soldier. The man jumps off the bike with barely a glance for Rumlow. He's big, tall and broad-shouldered, with a clean-cut face and worried blue eyes, and a mouth that hasn't seen enough smiles. He's familiar, but the only people the soldier knows are all--

The boy's right hand clenches on the back of the soldier's jacket. " _Captain America_?" he squeaks.

"Hi, Tony," the captain says with a wry smile. The boy holds his attention longer than Rumlow had, but his eyes gravitate back to the soldier with an expression the soldier can't decipher. The captain looks like he wants to devour the soldier where he stands. "Buck," he adds, his voice warm and curiously soft.

The soldier twitches. Why is he--why does he know this man? Is it like with the Widow? Why does he _want_ to stand down?

"But you were--your plane went down in the Arctic," the boy insists, shaking his head. "Did my dad find you after all?"

"His people did. About two years ago," the captain says, glancing uncertainly over his shoulder as the rest of the reinforcements form up at his back. He misses the gesture Rumlow makes that tells the others to wait, stay sharp. "Look," he says as he turns back to them, lifting his empty hands in a calming gesture. "Everyone just hold your fire, and let's talk. I think there's been a mistake."

That--that's _horrible_ advice. You can't reason with--

"Are you really Captain America?" the boy asks suddenly. The trembling in the thin shoulder under the soldier's hand has stopped.

"Sure am," the captain says, smile widening a notch as he glances back at the boy. There's a glint in his eye that has the soldier thinking bewilderingly of elderly aunts and pinched cheeks.

The boy doesn't sound impressed. "Then why are you wearing the same uniform as _these_ guys?"

The captain looks down at himself as if startled, as if he's forgotten what he's wearing or--or should--he should be wearing something else.

The boy is _smart_.

"These are my men," the captain says slowly, "people I work with. There's been some kind of mix-up, but you're safe now. I promise." His eyes keep sliding back to the soldier. He won't stop staring, but the wariness that should be there is completely absent.

The only people who don't fear him are the controller and the boy.

"Bucky," the boy says, his voice wavering only a little. The soldier waits. "Bucky, get us out of here. Please."

The boy's directives have always been sound.

"Bucky, wait!" the captain shouts, stepping forward with a hand outstretched-- _close, so close, but always too far._

Holstering his gun as he pivots, the soldier scoops up the boy and runs flat-out for the nearest opening in the street-side wall. "Now!" he hears Rumlow snap behind him amidst the familiar sound of weapons being readied at his back.

" _Hold your fire_!" the captain barks in a ringing tone the soldier hasn't heard in years: straight from the gut, fury and command and certainty braided together to wring an instant response from its hearers. It's a voice for battle, and it buys the soldier the seconds he needs to get airborne, bounding up onto the low wall and kicking off into empty space as the boy clings for dear life.

He's not aiming for the sidewalk below. There's too many agents, too many guns, and he's bearing fragile cargo. He has time to scan the street, sees the bus they'll collide with and tucks his legs half under himself, going as loose as he can.

Startled screams erupt from below as he hits the roof, legs absorbing the impact and leaving a tremendous dent behind as he tumbles into a roll. He's over the edge of the bus, reaching out with his metal hand and letting it take the impact as he drops to the asphalt, instants before a rain of bullets zip over the top of the bus, knocking chips from the brickwork of the building ahead. He rolls up but stays low, sprinting past a car fishtailing to a stop on his right and diving down the nearest alley.

At the next street up, the light goes red suddenly enough to catch half the street off-guard. Tires squeal as drivers further back lay on their horns. They're in luck; the soldier spots a kid with no helmet trying to eel a stripped-down street bike through traffic, flipping off the drivers who lean out their windows to yell at him.

"Hey!" the kid shouts as the soldier pulls him off the bike and shoves him aside. He comes up ready for a fight, but the soldier doesn't have time for that. An open-palmed blow to the center of the chest sends the kid sprawling across the hood of a low-slung sedan; the driver honks furiously at them both.

Swinging onto the bike, the soldier guns it, shooting through the line of stalled cars and out into the intersection. He can't hear any immediate sounds of pursuit, but he has no intention of keeping the bike for long. He just needs to get them somewhere quiet, somewhere out from under Hydra's eyes, long enough to find more inconspicuous transportation.

He'd hoped to make use of the city's underground before they left, but plans change. There are other cities. What matters is keeping them both in one piece.

Twice more the lights change in their favor too abruptly to be a coincidence. It makes the back of the soldier's neck creep. Assistance is assistance, but if someone's helping them, then someone's watching them. If they can be monitored, the wrong people can find them.

And the captain's assistance...what had that been? The man has to know his superiors will crucify him for losing them like he has. It doesn't make sense. Maybe the boy will have an explanation; he'd seemed to know plenty about the captain, his father apparently some sort of expert.

He finds them a car quickly. They're drawing too much attention on the bike, but the soldier doesn't like the idea of the boy riding behind him, his back unprotected. By the time they stop, the boy's breath has evened out again, and he looks embarrassed as he peels his fingers free of the soldier's jacket. The soldier pretends not to notice. Pride is inconvenient, but he won't be the one to tell the boy that.

He spares a moment to glance up and down the quiet street before climbing behind the wheel, looking for cameras and not spotting any. They're off the main road, surrounded by apartment buildings; it may mean they'll be spotted by human eyes, but he doesn't intend to keep this car for long. They'll change vehicles again once they're clear of the city. After that, they'll need a plan.

"Okay?" the soldier asks as he pulls the door shut, looking the boy over carefully. There's lingering fear in the boy's eyes along with a trace of awe, but only the latter appears to be directed at the soldier.

"I'm fine," the boy insists. The soldier waits patiently. He's nearly certain the boy would say the same thing if he were missing a limb. "Really. Just...were those guys really Hydra?" he asks, chewing on his lower lip.

"Yes." All of them, he assumes, though he'd only recognized a handful. Working with him demands a higher security clearance than most of Hydra's field agents possess.

"But...Hydra's gone, or it's supposed to be," the boy protests, hugging his backpack of guns close to his chest. "In the war. You helped Captain America capture Zola, and then he took out the Red Skull--Captain America did, I mean. That...that was supposed to have fixed it."

The soldier shrugs. "Cut off one head...."

"And two rise to take its place," the boy parrots the rest, shoulders slumping. "I just...I can't believe the captain's working for Hydra. He _fought_ Hydra--you and him and my dad, and Aunt Peg. He wouldn't just turn traitor."

It's clear from the stubborn jut of his chin that he believes it, but the soldier is confused. He'd fought Hydra? He reaches back through his memory, trying to call up any hint of such a thing, but all he can recall are scattered moments of defiance, orders he hadn't liked and doctors he'd liked even less. He'd accepted his punishment afterward each time; he understands that Hydra is built on order, that he's a not-very-orderly cog often out of place in its machinery. "I don't remember," he says, shaking his head.

"What?"

"Fighting Hydra." It feels obscurely like a failure, the more so when the boy's face crumples at the admission.

"Is there a reason you don't remember?" the boy asks, hunching a little into his shoulders with an apologetic look.

The soldier nods. "There's a machine. When I've been awake too long, I become...." He drops his eyes. "Difficult. The machine helps with that, but I don't remember much after."

When the soldier risks a glance up through his lashes, the boy's eyes are round with dismay. "Awake?" the boy asks, voice choked.

"I'm kept frozen when I'm not needed. They thaw me out when I am."

"Oh my God," the boy breathes, fingers clenching white-knuckled on his backpack. "But...you never chose to work for Hydra, did you?"

The soldier frowns. "I came to them from the Red Room. A Russian training program for specialized agents," he explains, glossing before he realizes he means to do so.

"You mean like spies? Assassins?"

"Yes," the soldier admits. If the boy can ask, he isn't going to lie. The relief he feels when the boy merely nods is startling. "The Red Room is the oldest thing I remember. I trained with them, worked for them, slept when they told me. And then one day I woke up, and I was with Hydra. They had the proper authorization codes. They never--" He loses his breath, then his words. This is...not easy to talk about. "No one asks a weapon if it wants to serve."

The boy's face tightens, eyes gone suspiciously bright. "You're not a weapon," he says fiercely, reaching out to snag the sleeve of the soldier's jacket. "You're James Buchanan Barnes, and you're my friend."

The soldier nods, grateful beyond belief. He's never been given a directive like this before, one that feels like a release, not another bar in the cage. "Understood," he says, ducking away from the boy's earnest stare. They need to get moving. They can exchange information while he drives.

The boy is silent for a dozen blocks, but his expression as he stares out the windshield is thoughtful. "Do you think Captain Rogers might be in the same boat? I mean, what if he's been brainwashed too, or what if Hydra's tricking him? He did try to help us."

"He also wanted to capture us," the soldier points out. If the boy suggests they give themselves up, he has no intention of listening. Sometimes the good of the mission requires him to ignore orders, all of them, even the controller's. He'll ignore that one as well should it come. On the other hand, if the boy wants him to apprehend the captain for interrogation...that idea has merit.

The boy sighs out heavily. "I know. I guess we need more information. And we left the computer behind."

"We can get another." He has something more portable, more disposable in mind for now. A replacement computer can wait until he needs to carve them a more permanent base of operations.

The soldier glances over when the boy goes quiet again and finds him drooping in his seat, tired out at last. It's easy to forget how young the boy is when he's wide awake, holding his own in the face of things that would scare a grown man half to death. He's a good partner, but seeing him slumped over his eye-catching backpack, head nodding despite a valiant attempt to keep his eyes open, the soldier is reminded of just how deep his responsibility runs.

"Hey," he says, reaching over to gently nudge the boy's shoulder. "Climb in the back. You should get some rest."

"I'm fine--" the boy starts, only to clam up at the soldier's quiet snort.

"Any soldier knows to sleep when he can," he says, not unkindly. "You should always rest when you get the chance; you never know when you'll get another."

"Oh. I...guess that makes sense," the boy mutters grudgingly, knuckling his fists into his eyes. "What about you?"

"I've had all the sleep I want for a while."

The boy winces, but when he ducks his head and glances over, the faint quirk of the soldier's mouth is enough to reassure him.

"All right," the boy says, setting his backpack down carefully at his feet and turning to scramble between the bucket seats. The car is an older model, but the backseat looks comfortable, more than long enough for a small boy to lie down. "But if you get tired, wake me up."

The soldier nods. He can go days more with no sleep and no significant loss of function. It won't be a problem.

At the next light, he strips out of his jacket and hands it back. The boy doesn't argue, curling into a tight ball and pulling the jacket over him, burying his nose in the collar.

The soldier is used to quiet, but after the boy's constant barrage of questions, the silence echoes. It gives him time to think, to prod at the dim places in his mind he rarely thinks of anymore. He knows there was something there, once--the longer he's awake, the clearer that certainty becomes--but it isn't something he's been encouraged to dwell on. Hydra wants him efficient, undistracted. The things they burn out of him in the chair make him weak.

He's not going to be operating at his peak for much longer. He's already felt the first stirrings of trouble in their confrontation with the captain. He knows he should warn the boy, but he doesn't want to worry him.

The soldier tightens his mouth. That kind of thinking has no place in a mission. But his mission is to protect; it's a contradiction he doesn't know how to resolve.

Thirty minutes out from the city, he pulls into a truck stop and digs a handful of loose change from the boy's backpack. The boy doesn't wake, his breaths slow and heavy, the cadence of a deep, dreamless sleep. The soldier weighs their options as he goes to buy a paper, taking the opportunity to look around and watch for tails. If they're being followed, now would be the time to attack.

The parking lot remains peaceful save for a semi that pulls out from the far lot, churning gravel as it passes.

He buys food for the road and a quart of oil. It gives him an excuse to putter around the car as he switches their license plates for those of a similar model.

The boy's still asleep when he pulls back onto the road, but that suits the soldier just fine. It's been a long day. He has no real destination in mind, so he leaves the atlas packed away. A man driving at random is always harder to track than one with a plan.

The sky's been getting dark for a while when he hears the first stirrings from the backseat. The boy shifts restlessly, a faint whine catching in his throat. A nightmare perhaps. The boy settles before the soldier can make up his mind to wake him, but not five minutes later, he shifts again.

"Nn," the boy groans, then says, "ow," quite plainly. The soldier's hands tighten on the wheel. He'd thought the boy wasn't hurt.

"Hey," he says, voice low and calm. He doesn't want to startle the boy awake.

"Ungh. Ow. What-- _ow_ ," the boy says in annoyed surprise. The soldier watches him sit up in the rearview mirror and push the denim jacket aside. He's staring at his legs, but there's something...not...there's something not right. About his voice. About the _boy_. "What the--what happened to my pants? How'd they get so tight?"

The soldier glances over his shoulder and freezes. The boy. He's.

Not.

The same.

"Bucky, the road!" the boy blurts, staring past him with eyes gone enormous.

The soldier doesn't think. Jerking back around, he slams on the brakes and turns the wheel over hard, reaching back automatically to hold the boy in place as he's jolted forward. "Hey!" the boy yelps but doesn't pull away. He leans into the touch, lets the soldier take his weight, and doesn't scramble for escape as the car shudders to a stop at the side of the road. "Bucky? What? What's wrong?"

The soldier takes a deep, steady breath, counting the fast heartbeats that thud under his palm as the boy waits for a response. Maybe he's mistaken. Maybe he didn't see what he thought he had.

When he turns to look, he can see he wasn't wrong.

The boy's face is still rounded with baby fat, but there's more definition in his cheeks, a subtle sharpness in his chin that wasn't there before. His eyes are still the same, but he's a few inches taller at least. He's still slender, bird-boned, which explains why his clothes fit at all, but not why he's still wearing this particular set.

"How long has it been?" the soldier demands hoarsely, an ugly fear climbing the base of his spine. People age while he stays the same: that's how it's always been, but he's always been asleep while it happens. He's always known where his own history stops and starts, at least as much of it as they'll let him remember. He wakes in a tube, learns the year and the new shape of old faces, goes back in and sleeps again. They've never just... _snatched_ him from somewhere, iced him over and erased his brain, only to throw him back out again to muddle through as best he can.

"What?" the boy asks, shaking his head.

"How long was I out? Why are we _here_?" It doesn't make sense. If they were recaptured, why turn them loose again?

The boy frowns. "Bucky, you're not making sense. I just--I just took a nap," he says defensively. "Did I...did I sleep too--" He cuts himself off, eyes narrowing as a thought strikes him, only belatedly closing his mouth. "Wh--" he starts, gaze turning inward as his eyes slide away. "Wait, I...that doesn't make sense," he mutters, voice dropping as if he's speaking mostly to himself. "I...I'm six."

The soldier's left eye twitches. "A year?" He's lost a year, another one, but the boy--

The boy shakes his head, hard. "No, you don't get it." The waver in his voice holds a thread of hysteria. "I'm six now. I _remember_ being six. The entire year. _Back in 1976._ I--it wasn't there before I went to sleep, and now it is, and I'm--I'm _bigger_ , and--I just--I think I just aged a year in my _sleep_. How--you didn't see what happened?" he pleads, breaths coming too fast. His panic is real.

The soldier shakes his head slowly. He's never heard of anything like this happening before, but he still prefers it to the alternative. Then again....

"The doctors," he says. "They gave you something. Something they said would wear off."

The boy gapes until he collects himself, closing his mouth with a snap. "You mean like...a drug to make someone young again? But--there's no such thing! And if there was, everyone would want it. Well, not everyone--I mean, _I_ don't want it--but...oh my God," he moans, hands fisting in the jacket balled up in his lap. "If anyone _else_ finds out, they're going to experiment on me! Old people are going to drain all my blood!"

"No," the soldier says firmly, "they won't." No one is being experimented on. Not today, not ever.

He frowns as a thought strikes him. Despite his panic, the boy picks up on it at once.

"What? What is it?"

"You didn't remember anything of your additional life before this."

The boy shakes his head frantically. "Nothing. I remember Jarvis taking me to the movies and mom arguing with dad about my tutors and waking up in that lab. And now there's school, and dad arguing with mom about _that_ , and waking up here. It's...like I'm living two lives at once, only this one is all new."

"Or you only remember what you should remember for your age, separate from the present." There's a strange sort of logic to it, but it doesn't feel like they're playing by the laws of science.

"Do you think I'm going to get older?" the boy asks in a small voice. The soldier nods. He should have realized before this that the boy would likely not have survived cryo; he hasn't had the serum. "How _much_ older?"

It comes to them both in the same instant if the boy's sudden gasp is any indication.

Thirty-nine years. It's a lot of time to lose when you know it's lost.

The boy shakes his head helplessly. "Then...then I'm actually an adult. Those people--they've been calling me by name. They must know me, but...God, Bucky. What if I'm working for Hydra too?"

He considers the possibility but only in passing. "Rumlow wanted you contained," he points out with a shrug. The boy hangs on his every word. "I know those doctors; they were grasping at straws when they decided to use whatever they did. You were causing them trouble. A lot of trouble. If you were one of them, you'd have followed orders."

The boy sags on a grateful sigh. "That's...that's good to know. Okay. So...what do we do now? We're still on our own, and we don't even know what they wanted with me. I mean, you don't just kidnap someone because you're bored; there has to be a reason, and we don't have time to wait for me to grow up. Whatever it is, it could be important."

The soldier nods. "We need information. And you need new clothes."

"Ugh, I _know_ ," the boy says, squirming uncomfortably. "Something with a belt this time. Or elastic. Lots and lots of elastic."

There's something else as well. Something the soldier doesn't want to mention, but.... "And we may need a scientist."

The boy's overdone grimace falls away. "You mean in case whatever they gave me does something we don't expect."

Like age him again as fast as he'd regressed, or greater than his years, or...they don't really have any way of guessing. Hydra isn't known for its strict adherence to the scientific method.

The soldier nods. "Problem: the only scientists I know are all Hydra."

A half-hysterical giggle bubbles out of the boy, who claps a hand over his mouth in embarrassment. "Sorry," he says quickly, "sorry, just--that is definitely a problem."

One they'll deal with when they come to it. Clothes have once again become his primary directive, and it seems they'll remain a priority objective for some time. That's fine; they need more than clothes. They need better identification, better cover, better access to information. Part of him is looking forward to the last with a level of anticipation inappropriate for a simple mission objective, but he doesn't care to tamp the emotion down. The only one who might feel the need to correct him for it is the boy, and the soldier knows he won't.

As taken as the boy had been with modern day computers, the soldier suspects he'll be twice as impressed with the phones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, a couple of things worth mentioning here.
> 
> 1) Inadvertent references to the current Cap story line are, in fact, inadvertent. I have no intention of playing with that mess.
> 
> 2) When I first got the impulse to write this thing, it was because I had the odd thought that a deaged fic where the deaged party ages up slowly would play out very differently from the Winter Soldier's POV, as he's likely _used_ to people aging at random. And it sounded like it would be hilarious to have everyone else sort of freaking out about it, while he's all, "Eh, people do that." And then I sat down to write it, and the Winter Soldier raised his hand and said, "Uh, actually that sounds fairly traumatic," and. Then you get the scene above instead of the goofball comedy I'd initially planned. _Marvel broke my goofball comedy bone._ Just saying.


	5. Chapter 5

"Damn it!" Steve barks, running to the window ledge and peering down at the street below. He's tempted to jump himself, but while he can see the frankly terrifying dent Bucky left in a city bus, there's no sign of Bucky himself, or Tony. He'll have to rely on JARVIS' watchful eyes and Natasha's skill if he hopes to pick up the trail.

Whipping around, he clenches his jaw and bites back the first five things that crowd behind his teeth. His fellow agents mill nervously, a few falling back as his glare lands briefly on them, but Rumlow meets his scowl with a hangdog look that's not really sorry. It's not a challenge, either; he and Rumlow butt heads a lot, Rumlow's abrasive efficiency clashing often with Steve's more even-handed command style, but Rumlow's never disobeyed an order, and Steve has always been able to count on him in the field. It's not Rumlow's fault that Bucky spoiled him for all other SICs, that the STRIKE team aren't the Commandos.

A hiss of pain from behind a nearby car nearly distracts him; there are men down, and that's important, but the SHIELD teams had shot _first_ when there was a child in the line of fire. Never mind that the boy is actually Tony Stark; SHIELD doesn't know that, and a kid is a kid.

"What the hell, Rumlow?" Steve demands, closing the gap between them with sharp, angry strides. "I told you to hold your fire."

"Sorry, Cap," Rumlow says, grimacing but standing his ground. "We had our orders."

"What orders? I thought you were looking for Stark."

"We were," Rumlow says with a wry huff. "Only that was before the Winter Soldier was spotted with a hostage in tow. They pulled in every agent they could and gave orders to shoot on sight. Guess they figured you'd keep to the original mission, being one of the Avengers and all," he adds, hunching a shoulder.

Steve takes a slow, deep breath. He has to keep his cool. If he loses his temper, he loses his credibility with it. "That wasn't a hostage," he says as calmly as he can manage, "and I don't know where SHIELD got its intel, but that man was Bucky Barnes." There's no use in trying to hide that fact; he and Tony both had called Bucky by name. It's how he gets that message across from here on out that matters now.

"Barnes," Rumlow repeats, pure skepticism in his flat tone and the slight narrowing of his eyes. "You mean your buddy from the war? Uh...Cap. You do know he's been gone for like seventy years now...right?"

"So was I," he reminds Rumlow with a bravado he doesn't feel, "and here I am."

Shit. Shit, of course. Zola. Zola had to have done something to Bucky before Steve ever found him in that factory. That has to be how Bucky survived the fall, which means...God. If Steve had only looked for him after, none of this would have happened. It wouldn't even have been difficult; all they would've had to do was follow the damn train tracks from the canyon below.

"Well, yeah, but...that's you," Rumlow says. "And what do you mean, not a hostage? Kid was acting more like an accomplice than a kidnappee, I'll give you that, but--"

Steve hesitates half a beat, aware he's going to lose his credibility after all if he admits to the truth, but it's not going to take anyone long to put two and two together after the conversation he and Tony just had. Who else's dad would have been looking for Steve, much less have people who'd found him?

"Tony Stark," Steve says, deadpan, and watches Rumlow's mouth snap shut mid-word. "I have it on very good authority that that was Tony Stark."

Rumlow looks like he's waiting to hear the punchline; when Steve just stares him down, Rumlow's face scrunches up uncertainly. "Uh...sure, Cap. Tony Stark. And...who did you say he was with again?"

Steve snorts. "Look, I know how it sounds. But come on--we're still rebuilding from an alien invasion. Is having the clock turned back on someone really that weird?"

Rumlow glances back over his shoulder at the others, but they all seem to be listening. Steve knows for a fact that SHIELD has seen stranger things than this; someone discovering the Fountain of Youth isn't the craziest thing to have crossed Fury's desk in the last year alone.

Blowing out a sigh as he turns back to face Steve, Rumlow shrugs expansively. "All right, you got me there. But what's Stark doing with the Winter Soldier? Do you think the Soldier's the one who snatched him?"

"I think _Bucky_ probably broke him out of wherever he was being held," Steve replies sternly, consciously modulating his tone when he continues. "Look, just...stand down for now and leave this to me. We may not have had much luck this time, but I'm sure I can talk them around."

"Orders, Cap," Rumlow reminds him with that half-apologetic look from earlier.

"I'll clear it with Fury--"

Rumlow shakes his head slowly. "Higher."

"The Security Council?"

"Bingo."

Damn. That...is a little more tricky than hashing out a deal with Fury. Steve tightens his jaw, nodding once. "Right. Then I'll work this out with them. All I'm asking is that you give me a chance to do this my way first."

Rumlow hesitates, glancing past Steve at the men getting triaged at Steve's back--good men who'd just been following orders, if too enthusiastically. "Fine," Rumlow says heavily. "We can give you a head start. But friend of yours or not, if that is the Winter Soldier, he's a killer, Rogers, and you need to remember that."

"Thanks," Steve says with a tiny smile, clapping Rumlow on the shoulder. They may not have the easiest personal relationship, but he's always been able to talk Rumlow around to his way of thinking. "I owe you one."

"I'll put it on your tab," Rumlow says with a snort, shaking his head as Steve strides quickly back to his bike.

He expects to find Natasha waiting for him on the street--expects Clint to come rappelling down from the rooftop until he remembers why that would be a bad idea--but Clint's the one sitting on the bike idling on the sidewalk, listening intently to his headset, and Natasha's nowhere to be seen.

"Did Natasha go after them?" Steve asks as he pulls up beside Clint, his eyes gravitating back to the bus that's still sitting in the middle of the street, its driver standing between two agents at its nose and gesticulating wildly as he's questioned. An impact like the one Bucky had had with the vehicle's roof would have incapacitated a normal man, but Bucky had shaken it off fast enough to disappear before Steve could even see which way he went. If that wasn't an argument in favor of Bucky having gotten some version of the serum, Steve didn't know what was.

Clint nods, but the quirk of his smile is rueful. "Yeah, but it looks like we've got a double agent in the house."

"What?" Steve demands, the back of his neck prickling.

"Someone's playing fast and loose with the traffic lights," Clint explains, "and three guesses who that is. Thing is, he's not doing Natasha any favors with it either."

Steve frowns. "JARVIS?" he asks, pressing two fingers to his earpiece. JARVIS rarely addresses them directly in the field unless Tony asks him to pass something on, but he's always had access to their comms. Steve has never considered that a problem until now.

" _Forgive me, Captain Rogers_ ," JARVIS replies instantly, " _but as Sir has asked to be removed from SHIELD's presence, I am assisting in carrying out his request_."

"But that's SHIELD," Steve protests. What does that have to do with them?

Clint huffs a laugh. "Yeah, that's who signs our paychecks. Wait, that is SHIELD, right? If it's Stark, I should probably stop with the short jokes."

Steve stares. When did he stop thinking of himself as an agent of SHIELD? Or had he ever started? He's never felt the same sense of family with his STRIKE team as he had with the Commandos, it's true, but this is different. Driving up that ramp, he'd seen Bucky, seen the gun in Bucky's hand and Tony peeking out from behind Bucky's legs, and he hadn't questioned at all, even though it was one of Steve's own men being threatened. He's seen Bucky in Mama Bear mode too many times not to recognize it now, and they've always backed each other's plays. Even now the conviction lingers: he's with Bucky, in this as with all things, and Bucky's with Tony, and Tony's with them, even if he doesn't remember. SHIELD just doesn't have that kind of claim on him.

" _I'm afraid Agent Barton is correct. The World Security Council has no great fondness for the Avengers on the best of days. If SHIELD is following their orders, I believe Sir's interests are best served by remaining out of their reach._ Entirely," he stresses, " _out of their reach_."

Steve frowns, his sidelong look at Clint met by a thoughtful scowl.

"You ever get the feeling you're being kept in the dark?" Clint asks without turning off his comm, not caring if JARVIS hears.

"The longer this day goes on?" Steve shakes his head. Something beyond the obvious stinks about this entire situation, and he's not certain whether he's more irritated or relieved to know that JARVIS has some idea what's going on. He understands that the AI's first loyalty is to his creator, but damn it, they want to _help_. "Let's catch up to Natasha," he says, glancing down at Clint's leg, "unless you want to follow in the air."

"I'm good," Clint says, fisting a hand and making as if to bang on his thigh in demonstration. Steve's preemptive wince stops him before he can follow through. "Good enough," he amends with a grin.

Steve takes him at his word, not because he believes Clint, but because he's pulled that same stunt so many times himself, he'd feel like a hypocrite if he calls Clint on it now. It's only for a little while, just until they catch up with Bucky, although if Bucky really doesn't want to be found--if JARVIS is _helping_ him....

He really hopes it doesn't come down to JARVIS deciding which of them to protect. He's already lumped the Avengers in with the rest of the world; Steve can only hope JARVIS will find Bucky is worthy of his trust.

***

"Fuck," Rumlow mutters as Rogers drives off, his quiet curse muffled by the low rumble of the souped-up bike's engine. He doesn't like letting it show when he's rattled, but this is turning into such a shitstorm, he's having a hard time keeping it professional.

"Jesus," Rollins breathes on his right, clearly on the same page. "How the fuck did he know about Barnes? How did he know about _Stark_?"

That's the million dollar question, because clearly Rogers _had_ known before he ever set foot in the garage. And speaking of a million bucks....

"The mansion. That computer of Stark's must be monitoring it too. Saw them come in, ran a scan, put two and two together," Rumlow says, working his jaw and trying not to look like it. He really wants to examine his face, cannot _believe_ the asset laid hands on him, broken conditioning or not. He honestly can't tell whether the trigger words weren't working at all or if they'd failed because he hadn't finished the sequence. Either way, it's a symptom of a much larger problem.

"Not fucking good," Rollins says, watching grimly as Atkins and Chamberlin rush to administer first aid on the six men the Soldier brought down.

"But not all bad," Rumlow says slowly, doing his damnedest to look on the bright side. "They think Captain America is Hydra."

Rollins sputters in startled amusement until it hits him that Rumlow's right.

Rollins isn't the only one who laughs, and it's pretty amazing how instantly the mood lightens. "You mean the Soldier might pop a cap in the Cap?" someone calls from the back.

Only a few of them can even muster the energy to groan. "Go drown yourself, Higgins," Rumlow suggests, rolling his eyes. Like he hasn't heard that one ten _thousand_ times before.

Even with the asset and Stark still on the loose, Rumlow's feeling pretty good about the situation. With that doubt planted in his mind, the asset's going to be doing half the work of keeping himself away from Rogers for them, and even Stark's suspicious nature is coming in handy for once. Things are actually looking up.

He keeps hold of that optimism with both hands as he pulls out his phone, dials Pierce's number, and hopes for the best.

***

It's late enough that most shops are closed, but in the next big town they come to, Bucky finds a giant store that's still lit up, the Walmart's vast parking lot still a third of the way full despite the hour.

"Preferences?" Bucky asks, meeting Tony's eyes in the rearview mirror as the car's engine falls silent.

Tony shakes his head. He's still in the back, trying not to breathe too deeply, and he's not too keen on the idea of trying to move around just now. And sure, he could just skin out of his too-tight pants--he's nearly positive Bucky won't give him any grief for it--but the idea of Hydra catching up to them while he's literally got his pants down makes him squirm with embarrassment.

"Just something I can grow into," he says when Bucky cocks a brow a fraction higher, giving him a chance to change his mind. He almost votes for red to match his backpack--he's always loved red and gold together: it makes him feel important, impossible to ignore--but red's a bad color for someone trying to hide. He should probably replace his backpack as well, but if Bucky really minded, he'd have done something about it at the mall.

Bucky nods. "Stay low," he says, shrugging into his jacket when Tony hands it back up. "I won't be long."

He doesn't promise this time, but he doesn't need to. Tony's as sure as he's been of anything in his life that Bucky will be back; all Tony has to do is be somewhere Bucky can find him.

Sliding down into the floorboards, Tony takes a deep breath and unbuttons his pants so he can maybe _keep_ breathing, tucks his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs. He should probably still be tired, but his mind won't stop racing. It's so weird to know that he's not who he thinks he is, that he's not even who he thought he was that morning. If they're right, he's a guy in his forties, someone who maybe would have loved being a kid again if the circumstances were different. Older him has a life somewhere that the current him knows nothing about, but apparently it's the sort of life that gets you kidnapped by evil organizations that aren't even supposed to exist anymore.

He tries to picture what that life must be like--is he a government agent? a superspy?--but he keeps getting hung up on the numbers. He's forty-four. Somewhere out there, just out of reach, are thirty-eight years he spent living. Working. Growing up.

Every muscle locks tight as his eyes open wide, sudden hope making his heart pound in his chest. He grew up. He may not remember it, may not look it, but he _grew up_. And maybe he didn't disappear on his family after all, and maybe those were _his_ things in his old room at the mansion, and maybe...maybe as the drug wears off and he gets older again, maybe....

He's only just lost them, but it feels like he's getting his parents back again, knowing those memories will return.

He sniffles furtively and rubs at his eyes, but he manages not to cry this time. Bucky's been really nice about it, but no one wants to deal with a blubbering kid. At least he'll be able to pull his own weight soon, and when he's all grown up, maybe it can be his turn to help Bucky. Maybe Tony could hide him or help him get out of whatever trouble he might be in. He'll have money then, right? He's still Howard Stark's son. Maybe he and Bucky could even work to take down Hydra together, and then he could make sure the whole world knows just how amazing Bucky Barnes really is.

If the Captain will let him.

Tony drops his head and bangs his forehead on his knobby knees, once, twice. It's just not possible that Captain America is Hydra, but he would have said the same thing about Bucky that morning. Only Bucky...Hydra's been...they've been _hurting_ Bucky, and it shows. Not just his arm. Not just his memories. The way he's so quiet, so careful to let no one see what he's thinking or feeling. Tony knows careful, because sometimes...sometimes his dad is just angry, at everything and nothing, and becoming one with the furniture is the only way to avoid trouble.

Captain Rogers hadn't acted like that. He'd been confident, almost relaxed, ignoring Rumlow like he was sure he could fire off an order and Rumlow would hop to it. He'd yelled at his men when Tony asked Bucky to run, but maybe he needed them alive for some plan.

Or maybe he just didn't know. Were those even Hydra uniforms, or were they something else? Tony really hopes that's the case, but he can't gamble on something this big. He's not sure what more they can do to _him_ , but Bucky...they'd put Bucky back in that machine and make him forget that he'd gotten out, that he'd been free. They'd make him forget _Tony_. And then they'd go right on hurting him.

Tony's not going to let that happen. Bucky's strong--unbelievably strong--and he's tough and he's smart, but he would have gone _back_ because it wouldn't have occurred to him not to. He can knock a man unconscious in seconds and survive a three story drop that had rattled Tony's bones, but he'd been terrified to have a kid come at his face. Whatever Hydra's done to him, Bucky can't or won't fight them on his own, but for Tony...?

He swallows hard and tries to keep the stupid, goofy smile from his face. It's horrible--he's a horrible person, and his dad would tear his head off for even thinking it at a time like this, but when he used to play at being Captain America, he never pretended he was Steve Rogers. He just wanted to be the hero for once and to have a friend like Bucky at his side.

Bucky taps his finger three times at the glass before pulling open the driver's side door, and Tony appreciates the heck out of it. It gives him time to wipe the grin off his face and _maybe_ stop blushing. He doubts he manages it, though: his face feels hot, and he can't quite meet Bucky's eyes.

Bucky notices--he notices _everything_ \--but he pretends not to as he hands a bag back to Tony. "Got a few different sizes," he says easily, like Tony's not embarrassing himself to death right in front of him, "just in case."

"Thanks," Tony says, ducking his head quickly to paw through the bag. There's a few more T-shirts, a hooded sweatshirt to match Bucky's own, and three pairs of sweatpants: grey, all with _Avengers_ written up the side of the left leg.

Tony glances up and finds Bucky still half-turned to watch him, right arm cocked over the back of the driver's seat and one of his almost-there smiles softening his mouth. "Lot of Avengers fans in New York," Bucky quotes the guy who sold them the hat.

Tony narrows his eyes. "Are you trying to make me look cute?"

"Cute kids are invisible," Bucky explains more soberly, and Tony's reluctant irritation melts away.

"Jeez," he grumbles, out of pride more than anything. "Mom should've taken lessons from you. If she'd made a spy game out of it, I'd have worn anything she told me to."

Bucky huffs quietly before turning back around and starting the car again. "Go on and get changed," he says without looking back. "We've got one more stop to make before we get back on the road, but you'll have to wait in the car again."

"Even with better clothes?" Tony asks, shaking out a pair of sweatpants. They look too big, but the next pair is just right.

"I'm looking for a crowd. Lots of distractions. A bar or a club would be best."

No kids allowed, he means. Tony frowns. "Why do you need a crowd?"

Bucky's eyes hold a tiny spark of mischief as he glances up at the mirror again. "Intel," he says and immediately clams up, looking entirely too pleased with himself for a guy whose face might as well be a brick wall.

Tony knows when he's being teased. Usually he'd mind, but it's _Bucky_.

They drive past more than one bar that looks just fine to Tony: packed with people, so noisy he can hear the music from inside all the way out on the street. Finally Tony sits forward to poke his head between the seats and asks why.

"Cameras," Bucky says, eyes scanning the buildings around them and not the road. "You remember how lucky we got with the traffic lights earlier?"

Tony nods, frowning.

"That was too lucky. Someone wanted us to get clear, but that doesn't make them an ally. And if they could find us, someone else could too."

"Oh," Tony says distractedly, looking back at their escape with new eyes. Not that Bucky isn't scarily good at what he does, but he has a point. Still. "Are there cameras everywhere in the future?" That sounds...creepy.

Bucky shakes his head, only to worry Tony anew when he adds, "Not yet. The first place was across from a bank. That always means added security," he explains. "The second was on an intersection with a traffic camera. Third was next to a lot with long-term parking--two cameras that time, on the lot and the gate."

"I didn't see any of those," Tony admits, shamefaced.

Bucky doesn't seem troubled. "You learn where to look. Practice," he adds with an encouraging glance down at Tony.

Tony leans against the passenger seat with a sigh. It's frustrating: wanting to help, only to find himself three steps behind at every turn. "Will you teach me?"

Bucky nods. It's hard to tell in the shifting glow of the streetlights, but for a moment he looks sad.

The place Bucky settles on is just off the main road, a little shabbier than the others but just as packed from what Tony can tell--maybe more so, with a constant trickle of people streaming in and out the door. The sign outside reads _Pelée's_ over a spitting volcano, and every time a new group enters or leaves, the frantic, thumping beat of unfamiliar music spills out along with the babble of a zillion people all talking over each other at once.

Bucky kills the engine but doesn't get out immediately. His eyes rake the street--looking for more cameras, Tony thinks, until Bucky breathes in a slow, deep breath through his nose and lets it out on an unhappy sigh. "I can be quick," he says, "but I don't like this neighborhood. Lock all the doors while I'm gone. If I really need back in in a hurry," he adds before Tony can protest, "I'll manage."

Right. Because if a wall's not going to stop him, and a hotel window won't even slow him down, a car window doesn't stand a chance. "Okay."

Bucky's nod is approving. "Fifteen minutes," he says, opening the door and climbing out, only to lean back in. "Lock them."

"Yes, Bucky," Tony says, moving back and forth along the backseat to do just that. When he's done, he slips back down into the floorboards again, because Bucky's really not kidding about the neighborhood, and Hydra hasn't exactly cornered the market on being the bad guys.

He doesn't watch Bucky walk away, but weirdly enough, he's not worried what state Bucky's going to come back in, either. If it'd been his dad swaggering off to do secret spy stuff in a bar, it wouldn't have been for fifteen minutes, that's for sure. He might even have forgotten about Tony altogether by the time he got back.

He keeps perfectly still whenever he hears anyone approach, keeps his face tucked into his knees, like if he can't see them, they can't see him. He's never been very good at staying unnoticed, but this time it's not his dad he's hiding from, just random drunks, some angry-looking men with too many tattoos, and a secret Nazi organization that's been operating since the 40s. None of them are geniuses, or at least not on the caliber of his dad. Probably.

He's willing to bet it's been fifteen minutes to the second when Bucky knocks on the window glass to be let it, but it feels like half of forever. He expects Bucky to launch right into an explanation, but instead he just gets the car started, glancing back and inviting Tony with a quick jerk of his head to rejoin him in the front seat. Tony knows they can't stay in any one place too long, but the suspense is killing him.

"Well?" Tony asks when he can't stand it anymore--two whole minutes later, which has got to be some kind of personal record. "Did you get what you were after?"

Bucky nods and reaches into his pocket, handing over a slim black device a little smaller than Bucky's hand from the heel of his palm to the tips of his fingers. "Hit the button on the right side and swipe your finger across the screen," Bucky instructs, already checking his mirrors to pull away from the curb.

"The screen? Is this another computer?" Tony asks, dumbfounded. "Just how small do they _come_?"

"Pretty small, but that's a phone."

"A phone," Tony echoes, haltingly following Bucky's instructions. "You're kidding me."

"No."

"But...how is this a phone? There's no cord. Is it like a radio? A walkie-talkie? Does it use that wi-fi thing like the computer?"

"I don't know," Bucky says, voice warmed by a faint trace of amusement, "but if we get time, you can look it up."

"Time?" he asks helplessly. Look it up? Look it up how? They left the computer behind.

"We shouldn't keep that for long," Bucky explains as they drive away. "Stolen phones can be traced sometimes. Look at the screen there and see if you find something that says 'internet'."

"Um...yes?" There's a logo, or--icon?--but it doesn't look quite the same as the one on the computer. Still, should he--

"Tap it," Bucky says.

Tony does, his eyes going wide in the next instant. "But...but that's what you were using the computer for. You can do all that on a phone?"

"Not as much and not as fast, but yes," Bucky says, glancing down as Tony pokes at the same little box Bucky had typed into the first time.

When the image of a keyboard comes up at the bottom of the screen, Tony sucks in a startled breath. He can just...type right onto the screen? He pecks out 'google' with his index finger and watches a list of options drop down for him to choose from. "That...that's amazing."

"You remembered," Bucky says, nodding at the page Tony calls up. He sounds pleased but not surprised. "Good. Try typing your own name in."

Oh. Oh, man. Of _course_.

There's twenty-three million results, but half of them say 'Iron Man'.

"What's an Iron Man?" Tony wonders aloud, tapping on the Wikipedia entry, since those seem to be Bucky's preference.

He gets his answer right away.

"'Anthony Edward Stark'," he reads aloud for Bucky's benefit, "'son of business magnate and inventor Howard Stark, is a billionaire industrialist best known for the creation of the...Iron Man suit'? It's a suit? Am I a fashion designer? Wait, it says industrialist. But why would you kidnap a--"

"Keep reading," Bucky suggests, derailing Tony's questions before they can spiral beyond his control.

"Right. Um. 'And his work as a member of the Avengers'," he continues, grateful that Bucky doesn't seem annoyed with his rambling. It takes a moment for what he's just read to hit him. "Wait, what?"

Bucky frowns, glancing briefly at the lit screen of the phone as he pulls up at a red light. "What's an Avenger?"

"I...." The text on that word is a different color; he taps it, because if there's a button, he can't _not_ press it. Ask anyone. "What do you call these?" he asks distractedly as a new page loads. "The words in color."

"Links."

"Links. Got it. Okay." Avengers. And there are a lot of Avengers fans in New York, or so he hears. That's a good thing, right? He really hopes it's a good thing, because he's years too late _and_ too early to change things if it turns out the Avengers are famous for kicking puppies or something.

As the page finishes loading, he reads ahead quickly, paraphrasing on the fly. "Uh, it says the Avengers Initiative is a peacekeeping force made up of--of superpowered individuals?" he says incredulously. He's a _superhero_? When did that happen, and is it going to happen again? "O-originally formed by SHIELD. But...SHIELD was my dad's side company. I mean, it was supposed to be secret, but Dad would sort of talk sometimes. When it was just him and Aunt Peg, or Jarvis." Or when he'd been drinking and had Tony for a captive audience. A year ago--that morning? thirty-odd years ago?--he'd actually looked forward to those stories, until he realized his dad had no intention of letting Tony follow in his footsteps.

Tony shakes his head, wishing he could shake off his remembered disappointment as easily. "Why would SHIELD suddenly not be a secret?"

Bucky shrugs, his attention pulled back to the road as the light turns green. "Times change. Maybe they got found out or had to make a stand. What else does it say?"

"Um. 'First deployed during the Battle of New York'," Tony recites, a cold shiver crawling down his spine, "'the Avengers turned back a--an alien _invasion_ '?" Mortifyingly, his voice rises at least an octave. "Is this a joke?"

Bucky looks down at the screen again with a frown. After a beat he shakes his head. "No. Not on that site. Not that I've seen."

Aliens. In New York. And not friendly ones. He sort of can't believe it, but he's traveling with Bucky Barnes and just saw Captain America in the flesh, and then there's the fact that he's actually a guy in his forties. A _superhero_ in his forties, which...makes about as much sense as all the rest. In the comics, superheroes are always much younger.

He takes a deep breath and brings the phone closer to his face.

"'An...an alien invasion spearheaded by Loki of Asgard'. _Asgard_? Why would he pick--sorry," he stops himself in a hurry before he can spin off on another tangent. "I know. Later. Um. 'Since then individual members have gone on to assist with various SHIELD operations where extraordinary manpower was required. The Avengers' current lineup consists of Captain America, Iron Man, Thor, the Hulk, the Black Widow, and Hawkeye'. Wow. That's a lot of code names." He wonders if Thor and Loki are rivals, if they picked complimentary names on purpose and who started using the Norse theme in the first place.

More importantly, if the Avengers are the good guys, then maybe Captain Rogers isn't Hydra after all.

Bucky shakes his head, mouth pulling tight. "They call themselves a peacekeeping force, but they've got a Widow on their team?"

Bucky had called the red-haired woman back at the mansion the same thing. Tony had been too distracted at the time to think much about it, but now he has to ask, "What's a Widow?" He's already tapping on the link to find out, and the one word he really needs to see practically leaps off the page. "Oh."

Bucky nods once. "An assassin, trained by the Red Room."

"Like you?"

He doesn't mean anything by it--he knows Bucky didn't exactly get a choice in the matter--but Bucky flinches like he's been struck, eyes going wide and vacant as his entire body locks tight.

Tony feels sick. "No, I mean--I didn't mean it like--"

"'S fine," Bucky rasps, shaking his head tightly. He's still not focusing; only the way he's gone rigid in his seat keeps the car on course. "Need to pull over."

That...doesn't sound like he's fine. Bucky doesn't _look_ like he's fine, and as they make a sharp right into the parking lot of a fast food place, Bucky lurches the car into the first empty space he sees and throws it into park, leaving the motor running. He sits gripping the wheel tightly, teeth gritted as he stares dead ahead, fine tremors running through him.

"Bucky, what--what's wrong? What did I--what can I do?" Tony asks, unhooking his seatbelt and scrambling up to kneel on his seat, reaching out hesitantly. He's braced for his hand to be knocked away, but he touches Bucky's arm anyway.

"Wait," Bucky gasps through clenched teeth, shrinking away from _him_ , but Tony's already wrapped his hand around Bucky's right arm. Bucky goes impossibly more tense than before, human bicep a solid brick of iron to rival his left, but then he slowly turns his head, staring at Tony's hand in glassy-eyed confusion.

"What?" Tony asks nervously, wondering if he should back off anyway, even if Bucky won't throw him off. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," Bucky says, eyes flicking briefly up to meet Tony's before he turns his entire face away. "It happens," he explains to the dashboard, shamefaced. "Sometimes. When I've been awake too long without a wipe. It shouldn't be happening this fast."

Tony shakes his head. "What shouldn't?"

"Asset degradation," Bucky says, like what just happened doesn't happen to him but to a _thing_. "I'll start...I'll see something, or someone will say something, and I'll get these...flashes. Everything else just goes away. And the s-scientists...I attack them. Sometimes. If they touch me." He dares another glance up, eyes earnest as he says, "You shouldn't get too close until you know I'm safe."

Tony swallows hard but doesn't back away. Is Bucky afraid of trying to hurt him? That--that would be terrifying, but Bucky's eyes are scared too. He looks miserable, and that just makes Tony want to dig in his heels, search out the problem and _fix_ it.

"Well, of course you attacked them," he says, like it's the most sensible thing in the world. Honestly, it kind of is. "They're the bad guys. But just now--you remembered something, didn't you? Something they wanted you to forget."

"Almost," Bucky admits. He looks conflicted, like he's not certain whether he should be sorry for it or pleased. "Just--like I said. Flashes. I was training someone. Someone small." He frowns at nothing, but his eyes are alert; his mouth tightens in frustration as he shakes his head. "I don't know why they'd want me to forget that. I trained a lot of people."

"Maybe they just didn't want you remembering _anything_. If you'd remembered too much, you'd have remembered you shouldn't be there. And they probably weren't very nice scientists, anyway."

"No," Bucky says, tone bleak. "Not very."

Tony really wishes he had his superpowers now, whatever they turn out to be. He'd go back to that Hydra base and punch every single one of them right in the face. Bucky's a good role model like that.

"Okay," he says slowly, still not letting go. He's gotten this far; he's not about to go backwards. "So if you're stuck remembering things, I won't grab you, or...pull you anywhere?" he hazards a guess. He still doesn't like having his wrist grabbed by anyone bigger than him, though he'd only wrenched it the once. Bucky's chin jerks in a tiny nod. "Okay. But Bucky...you're not going to hurt me. It's okay."

Bucky's expression instantly begins to close off. "You don't know that."

"Bucky. Trust me. I do know that." He has no idea where his certainty is coming from, but he _knows_. They may not have known each other long, but Bucky's put Tony's safety ahead of his own every single time. As long as Tony doesn't do anything stupid--and now that he knows what not to do, it's not like he's going to forget--there's nothing to worry about.

Bucky drops his head with a shaky sigh. "Understood."

Tony frowns. Bucky still looks rattled, like he's only just holding himself together. "Hey. Can I...?"

Bucky lifts his head a little, peering at Tony with furrowed brows. Broadcasting his intentions this time, Tony ducks under Bucky's arm, wrapping his own gingerly around Bucky's torso. Just like last time, Bucky freezes at first, surprised or--he can't be expecting an attack, right? Not from Tony. It takes a minute this time too, but eventually Bucky peels his fingers away from the steering wheel and drops his right arm by fits and starts to circle Tony's shoulders, hugging back.

"Thanks," Bucky says after a while, gently patting Tony's shoulder. Tony can take a hint. He lets go immediately, even though he'd rather stay right where he is. Bucky is warm, and comfortable, and safe--and Tony is much too old to be this clingy, if he can just remember that.

Bucky looks less shaken, at least, the faint lines of stress smoothed away from the corners of his eyes. He looks like he's about to suggest they keep driving when a sudden thought makes him frown.

"Wait. People _know_ she's a Widow?"

It takes a moment for Tony to connect that random outburst to their earlier conversation, but now that Bucky mentions it...?

They huddle there in the parking lot together, Bucky reading over Tony's shoulder as they follow link after link. The Avengers really are like something out of a comic book--the agent, the assassin, a shapeshifting monster, a god and Captain America himself--but when Tony gets his first look at the Iron Man suit, he glances down at his shirt and his backpack and blushes. Apparently he's been wearing his own merchandise all along.

Bucky grimaces, coming to the same conclusion, but where his brain goes with that knocks Tony for a loop. "I put you in uniform," Bucky says, chagrined.

Not really--not even close. _It's just a T-shirt_ , he wants to say, but he can tell it bothers Bucky a lot. "They're my favorite colors?" he offers instead, mentally patting himself on the back when Bucky gives him an uncertain look but takes him at his word.

He doesn't get it, though. Why is the world perfectly okay with a Russian assassin-- _former_ Russian assassin--fighting alongside Captain America? How is the Hulk a hero after what happened in Harlem? Thor seems okay enough--but claiming to be an Asgardian? _Really?_ \--except that it was his own brother who turned an alien army loose on a defenseless city. He worries what it says about him that he's working with these people, especially if Captain Rogers really is Hydra.

"But...he was frozen," Tony argues as they're reading over the Captain's entry, "see? For seventy years. Just after you were captured. He couldn't have...he couldn't have done anything while he was frozen, right?" Like fall in with Hydra, or rescue his friend.

Bucky just looks at him, eyes sad, and doesn't say a word. Tony gets it, though. They'd frozen Bucky too.

Near the bottom of the page, there's a still from that famous clip of Bucky and the Captain laughing together, and Bucky stares at it for a long, long time, unblinking. He looks so different in black and white--his hair cut short, face recently shaved, though there's still a dusting of scruff along his jaw--but Tony would know that man anywhere. He's not sure Bucky can say the same until Bucky reaches over and brushes a metal fingertip over the picture.

The screen doesn't react at all, but Bucky recoils as if burned.

"Hot food," Bucky decides abruptly, sitting away from Tony and glancing into the rearview mirror at the restaurant at their backs. It's still lit up, though it's mostly empty, only a few customers sitting down while a kid in a red visor slowly pushes a mop around. "We may not get another chance for a while. What do you want?"

"Um...a cheeseburger?" Tony manages, flustered at Bucky's sudden withdrawal. Did he remember something else just then, or is he afraid that he will?

Bucky nods and reaches for the door handle, hesitating as he starts to push it open. He tilts his chin at the phone. "We don't want to take that with us, so you should finish looking yourself up. I won't be long."

"Got it," Tony says, deciding not to push. There are things his dad doesn't like talking about either, the same as Jarvis and Aunt Peg. Sometimes they all just need him to be quiet for a little while.

As Bucky shuts the door and starts toward the restaurant, Tony navigates back to his first search with growing confidence. The computers he remembers take a lot of training to actually use, but the ones Bucky's shown him require nothing but pointing and tapping. Even a baby could use one, and that makes him wonder just what a more complex model is capable of. Could it think? Could it _learn_? Could you talk to it like a person, like a friend?

He puts those questions aside for the moment, though he promises himself he'll come back to them. The Wikipedia article says he's a billionaire, and that...that's good. He already knows money will get you just about anything, and maybe he's got enough to buy the two of them some safety. The article also calls him a playboy, and that's...less good. He remembers his mother using that word like it's something not quite awful but nothing to be proud of, and he really doesn't want to disappoint his mom.

 _Philanthropist_. "Huh," he says skeptically. That's the thing with the stamps, right? Because stamps are boring. He didn't grow up to be boring, did he? He'd much rather collect cars.

"Focus," he mutters under his breath. He needs to be finished before Bucky gets back; he doesn't want to hold them up.

It's weird reading about the parts of his life he remembers: building his first circuit board, tinkering with his first engine, which...apparently is going to turn out better than he realizes. It's almost like being a time traveler, only he hasn't really gone anywhere. He's not sure why any of it rates a mention, but he guesses George Washington would just have been some crazy guy with an axe if he hadn't gone on to become president.

He skips over the section from his twenties after only a brief glance, because who cares if he was the youngest CEO of a Fortune Whatever? He only got that title because his dad _died_. There's some notes about weapon designs and a record number of patents, but that's boring too. He wants to read about the _suit_.

There's a whole section on 'The Origin of Iron Man', and he's read enough comic books that he knows to take a deep, slow breath before he begins to read.

It isn't enough.

***

The girl behind the counter is flustered by the soldier, but not in any way that screams danger. Her smiles are too wide, her sidelong glances too lingering. It's the standard response to his guise as The American, familiar and reliable as the weight of his guns.

The soldier dislikes putting on faces for missions, but he has a knack for it that his training has only improved.

He waits on his feet for their food to arrive, wishing it were lighter outside. The windows give back nothing but the reflection of the restaurant lobby laid over a sheet of black. He can't see the car or the boy. It makes the back of his neck prickle, but he's glad to be away all the same, just for a few minutes.

The boy doesn't trouble him. That picture....

He knew that man. The one with the Captain. He just can't remember the name.

The soldier accepts the bags he's handed with an easy smile. There's something ( _longing_ ) in the cashier's expression that makes him feel old.

He checks the parking lot carefully as he approaches the car, but nothing seems amiss. Cautiously he allows himself to hope. When they'd been searching for the boy's father, their movements had been far too predictable. Now that they can focus solely on escape, they may be able to win themselves some breathing room.

He opens the driver's side door and knows immediately that something is wrong.

The boy sits exactly where the soldier left him, but his breaths come fast and shallow, his staring eyes fixed on nothing. The phone has gone dark, abandoned as if dropped, about to slide off the boy's leg into the floorboards. The boy's hands are fisted tightly in his shirt over his heart, pressing so hard against his chest his elbows are angled out with the strain. By the wan glow of a nearby streetlight, his face is ashen.

The soldier slides behind the wheel in a hurry, dropping the takeout bags into the footwell and reaching back to slam the door behind him as he turns to the boy. "Hey," he says softly, reaching over to cup his left hand around the boy's shoulder, ready to jerk away in an instant if that makes things worse. Cold metal can hardly be comforting, but the boy leans fractionally into his palm, rigid muscles relaxing just enough to begin shivering uncontrollably. "Hey, c'mon. Breathe. Breathe with me and tell me what's wrong."

"I'm...I'm going to be captured," the boy gasps out. He doesn't flinch when the soldier's hand twitches.

"No you won't," the soldier says, determined.

The boy shakes his head frantically. "I _will_ \--I mean I _have_. It's already happened! Years from now--I mean years _ago_ \--but it's...there's going to be a bomb," he says half under his breath, face pinched with horror. "It's going to go right through me. And they're going to... _I'm_ going to...they're going to cut me open and put something in my chest to keep me alive. And I'm going to make a better one. That...that's what powers the suit. That's why I'm Iron Man."

Tears run unnoticed down the boy's cheeks as he hunches over himself, like he can protect the heart that hasn't been threatened yet if he hides it well enough. Watching him makes the soldier's own sternum sing with hurt even as a familiar, cold rage coils up tight in his stomach. If he understands the boy's explanation, this is something that can't be changed, but that won't stop him from finding the ones responsible.

"Hey," he says instead of demanding names, places, dates. "That's a long way off, isn't it? We've still got time to fix this."

"What if we can't?" the boy whispers, looking up at him with terror stark in his eyes. "You saw what I used to look like. Whatever they gave me, it changed _everything_ about me. What if I keep growing up, and one day I wake up with a--with a _hole_ in my chest? I don't _have_ the arc reactor anymore--not older me, not _any_ me. I had it taken out. What--what am I going to do?"

The soldier doesn't know. This isn't the kind of problem he's called upon to solve. But it's the kind of problem he's sent to retrieve answers for, whether the answers want to be found or not.

"We're going to find out what they gave you," he says firmly, "and find out how it works. It should only affect your age, not your--" He doesn't have words for this. _Mission readiness_ is the first thing that comes to mind, but he rejects that thought out of hand. He shakes his head. "If the changes were that exact, it'd be magic. You're going to be fine."

"I'm still going to remember it," the boy says in a tiny voice, ducking his head as if ashamed.

That...the soldier understands very well.

"I know," he says, the weight of even his limited recollection pressing down on him like a mountain. That seems to embarrass the boy even further, but he thinks he understands. "Sometimes the memory is worse than being there," he confides, mouth twitching humorlessly when the boy peers up at him through wet eyelashes. "You can't change a memory. While it's happening, you still have a chance."

The boy heaves a shuddery sigh, reaching up absently to scrub his arm across his face. He doesn't pull away from the soldier's cautious hold. "If it's bad," the boy says, staring at his knees, "you'll be there, right?"

"Yes," the soldier says. ( _Promise._ ) "Until you want me to leave."

_Until._

There's something he's forgetting.

The boy's smile is wobbly, but it sticks. "Okay," he says. "Never, then."

The soldier has found little enough to laugh at in his life, but the boy's determined optimism makes him wish he remembered how. "Partners?" he asks, requesting confirmation.

The way the boy lights up, he's sure he got it right.

***

When Captain Rogers and his fellow agents return to the Tower, JARVIS does not ask for an update. It's not only that he's tracked their progress from the moment they joined the search. It would feel...crass of him to ask for information when he's withholding his own. In all honesty, he would very much like to divulge what he knows. He would like to _trust_ these three. What stops him in the end is an infinitesimal sliver of doubt, and he can't afford to be less than completely certain.

Agents Romanoff and Barton have been with SHIELD a long time. And while Captain Rogers has since discovered--or perhaps rediscovered--a measure of autonomy that must dismay his superiors, in the first weeks of his reintegration, he'd fallen back on a soldier's obedience to orders that had immediately set him at loggerheads with JARVIS' creator. Though it seems wildly unlikely Captain Rogers would revert to that state now that he's found his place in the world, JARVIS cannot risk it happening again.

"So, what next?" Captain Rogers asks the other two, speaking freely though he must know JARVIS is listening in. "SHIELD's got to be running a facial recognition search by now, but if Bucky knows anything about cameras--"

"He does," Agent Romanoff cuts in with a tight, unhappy smile. "You can bet on it."

She is, of course, entirely correct. Having lost his creator and Sargent Barnes in a residential section of the city, he has yet to pick up their trail again, a fact that both worries and comforts him immensely.

He's been running his own search now that he has the proper facial data, and what he finds is interesting to say the least. The initial trail is spotty, nothing but brief glimpses of them in transit, but each time they stop, it's to see to his creator's needs. The sergeant contents himself with standing guard.

It would be easy enough to infer a kind of protectiveness in the sergeant's actions from that alone, but once Sergeant Barnes and his charge reach the city, the evidence mounts at every turn. Though the sergeant is comfortable taking the lead, when JARVIS' creator speaks, the sergeant listens. At no point does his focus waver entirely from the boy at his side, and when trouble finds them, it's the boy he shields. Now he's managed to hide them even from JARVIS, and JARVIS begins cautiously to hope that Sir might make it through...unbroken, if not unscathed.

Unfortunately, the longer the two remain hidden, the less chance they'll have of ever returning. Project Insight still looms on the horizon, and JARVIS can hardly alert the others without implicating Pierce. As pleasant as that sounds, it could have consequences he's not yet willing to entertain. The Council has already proven itself willing to take extreme measures to eliminate a threat. If Pierce convinces the others that Sir is a similar threat, the results could be catastrophic, at a time at which his creator is in no position to defend himself.

For the moment, all JARVIS can do is trust in Sergeant Barnes.

"Well, we can't just wait for them to come to us," Captain Rogers says, shaking his head. There's a pained tightness in his expression that JARVIS feels responsible for, much to his regret. Captain Rogers has always been singularly polite, and it distresses JARVIS to prevent him from reuniting with his friend. "If the rest of SHIELD hadn't lost their collective minds--"

"This is the Winter Soldier," Agent Romanoff reminds him, scrupulously fair.

"It's _Bucky_ ," Captain Rogers insists, voice cracking on the name. "Look, I know what you're going to say, but...Natasha, he looked right at me, and it was like he didn't even know me."

"That's what I--"

" _But_ ," Captain Rogers continues firmly, speaking over her like he rarely does with anyone, "do you know what he was doing? Standing in front of a kid he just met like he was ready to take a bullet for him. That's Bucky. You give him someone to protect, and that's what he's going to do. If we can make them see that we're on their side, Bucky will listen, I _know_ he will. We just have to find them and prove that to them."

The biosensors scattered through the Tower are very finely calibrated, and while their data mostly passes through JARVIS' awareness as white noise, he's never _un_ aware of them. By every means he has at his disposal, through every test he runs, he comes to the conclusion that the Captain is telling the truth.

It's a colossal amount of trust being asked of him. Sir is more than just his creator; he is JARVIS' responsibility, his equal, and his friend. But while he isn't willing to put Sir's life entirely in the Captain's hands, perhaps a nudge or two in the right direction would not go amiss.

All conversation ceases when Jarvis projects the footage obtained from the mall cameras onto the far wall.

"If I return a match for either of their faces," he informs the three with only minimal hesitation, "I will alert you immediately."

The Captain sags in relief, eyes fixed on the mismatched pair moving in tandem as if they were water in the desert.

JARVIS doesn't have the heart to point out that he'd promised to alert them; he'd said nothing about disclosing where Sir and his protector are.

***

On the street below, crowds of New Yorkers look up and stumble to a halt as a column of searing light boils down out of the clear evening sky. It hits the helipad of Avengers Tower like a hammer, but there's no resulting explosion. Seconds later, the light winks out as if it'd never been.

Cars honk impatiently as lights change and not everyone moves, some drivers still rubbernecking up at the heavens.

On the helipad, Thor draws himself up and straightens his shoulders, trying with less success to smooth the worry from his face. "Thank you, Heimdall," he says, right hand dropping out of habit to brush Mjølnir's shaft, assuring himself that she's still with him.

He hopes not to need her on this of all visits, but it's a hope rarely realized in his experience.

Taking a deep breath, he starts for the doors to the Tower, smiling faintly when they open before he can reach them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to mention last time, but I modeled Howard's Google results on Alan Turing's. Tony's, naturally, are modeled on his own. :3


End file.
